GUESSWORK
by Betz88
Summary: Seeking an end to his chronic pain, House has fled rehab and headed south. Alarmed, Wilson follows. As they will see, however, there are many kinds of pain, no easy answers, and in real life, tomorrow never comes.
1. Chapter 1

"GUESSWORK"

Betz88

- Chapter One -

"Burning Bridges"

It's Friday.

Nothing wonderful about that. We get one of those every week. But today has one thing going for it: I'm _outta_ here!

My bag is packed and leaning against the wall by the door. I said goodbye and good luck to everybody who was instrumental in turning my miserable existence around and getting me off the drugs and into a better life.

Lucky me!

That was a joke … in case the mild sarcasm passed you by!

Discharge time is noon. That's thirteen minutes from now.

They're having group therapy in the dayroom. I can hear them mumbling through the Serenity Prayer and the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions and the Preamble. I could recite that shit in my sleep. Six weeks is a long freaking time to sit and listen to the same crap over and over and over again, every single day.

I fought them and fought them and told them over and over again that I'm not a damned addict. I said I _wasn't._ They said I _was!_

It finally got to the point that I stopped arguing. Screw it! Let them be right. Let them think I finally accepted the First Step. And all the other shit …

"_My name is Gregg, and I'm a drug addict and an alcoholic."_

And the twenty-voice chorus in front of me says:

"_Hi Gregg!" _ And I cringe.

_  
_ I did six weeks, and then opted _out!_ I did the rehab that Cuddy insisted on and Tritter insisted on … and even my best friend … yeah, right! … Wilson … insisted on. My insurance paid for the first twenty-eight days. I paid the rest.

Today I'm free. Today I get the fuck out of here, and they may … or may not … ever see me again.

Tom W. asked me awhile ago if I wanted to go to my last rehab meeting today. He wasn't happy with my answer. He's not happy with me in general. Screw him! He's an alcoholic and a drug addict. A bona fide loser. I'm not.

But one thing's for sure that I _am_ … and that's _gone!_

Somebody put a Big Book in my backpack … but there's a garbage can right outside the front door of the hospital. I'll dump it in there when I see my taxi pull up out front.

Admitted to ourselves, to God, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs …

They call it "getting a sponsor." _A what??_

They wanted me to spill my guts to some other asshole four times as screwed up as me. Don't hold your breath!

Loudmouth Tom just called out the door, then came over to shake hands and grin at me with a stream of platitudes. Says my taxi is out front. I turned around and walked away from him. For the fiftieth time.

Grabbed my cane and backpack and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.

I told Cuddy and Wilson I wouldn't be leaving until the end of the workday. Not til after all the bleeding hearts packed up their opinions and their curiosity and gone home.

Wilson thinks he's giving me a lift back to my place with him tonight. He knows my mobility is shot and my leg feels like there's a red-hot poker jammed inside it. He and Cuddy want to make sure I get home okay … because the hospital is still liable until I make it there in one piece.

Screw that! I can still walk well enough to do it myself. I don't need his puppy-dog eyes, or his hand on my shoulder. I don't need the bastard to tell me again how he did it for my own good.

What I do need is to get the hell away from this place for awhile.

For six weeks, while the rest of those sorry assholes sat in group therapy and whined about their disadvantages and miserable lots in life, I was making plans to hit the road and get lost where nobody will find me until I'm damned good and ready for them to find me.

I have about three hours to get stuff packed up, get on the bike and hit the road. Got a lot of thinking to do.

There's the taxi. Nobody in the lobby … it's lunchtime. Guess everybody's gone to stuff their faces.

Leg hurts like hell. Move a little faster.

There's the trashcan. "Big Book … you're history."

As they say on your last day of rehab: _This is the first day of the rest of your life! _

_Ninety days and ninety meetings, _they say. _One day at a time,_ they say.

Right! Watch me!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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	2. Chapter 2

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Two -

"Taking A Personal Inventory"

The apartment was dark, blinds pulled down, drapes drawn together. He recognized the musty odor of long abandonment, mixed with a faint, lingering twinge of Lysol.

Not his doing!

Wilson had been here. Cleaning up after him. Weeks before, probably.

He dropped the backpack inside the front door and flicked on the light, stood still for a moment, looking around.

He remembered back, six weeks earlier … the morning he'd gone to work feeling miserable about leaving his place in such a fucking mess.

That morning, he'd finally leveled with the kids. He was checking himself into rehab. Tritter and Cuddy and Wilson had won the war by sheer weight of numbers, and even his staff had knuckled under after being issued strict orders by their superiors and that quiet-voiced, gray-haired "champion of justice".

He'd felt conspired against and backed into a corner and even a little irrational, full of resentment and denial. It had never been possible for him to explain to any of them that it was the _pain in his leg_ that drove him to such extremes.

It was _still_ impossible, even in this "enlightened" day and age, to convince anyone that he was dependent on pain meds to get him through the difficulties of everyday living … and _not_ from any addictive desire to get high and stay that way! He took the Vicodin because he _hurt! _Because the pain was often excruciating.

He should have saved his breath!

People could not relate to what he was experiencing. They would have to suffer such pain themselves in order to understand what it put him through every day of his life. No explanation he had ever attempted left anyone without some amount of skepticism, some lingering seed of doubt. Their eyes remained clouded with suspicion, and they stared at him every time, half expecting to find deceit, while his own eyes glittered hotly with his barely contained agony.

And then he had allowed himself to fall into addictive behavior.

He sighed, leaning wearily against the wall inside the door, and let it swing closed behind him. Fuck them all!

His skin reeked of rehab cooking, rehab furniture and rehab atmosphere. His clothing gave off a faint odor of too many neglected bodies in close proximity to his own. The stench of too much stale sweat and an amalgam of narcotics and detox, mingled with the powerful pheromones of too much unresolved anger. All this angst vied for dominance over too much sullen silence, and way too much despair, all exuding stenches of their own.

Every time someone left rehab … declared "clean" … another human garbage pile took his or her place. And so it went. A constant rotation of abused merchandise!

00000000

Hah! 

House, for chrissakes, get your head out of your ass and pay attention to what you're doing!

I reached to the inside pocket of my jacket and drew out the skinny pack of cigarettes, a little squooshed, a little bent.

_Marlboro Man!_

I lit one and took a long, deep drag. It took the edge off the pain in my thigh for a few seconds, and I closed my eyes and rolled with it. I have good-sized vials of Neurontin and Ultram, and a small bottle of Advil in my backpack … shitty substitutes for real pain relievers! Sometimes I think I might as well swallow a handful of M&Ms.

But I _won't_ go back to the Vicodin, even if it kills me!

I thought for a minute about letting myself melt onto the couch and just lay there, smelly clothes and all, and try to catch some sleep until Wilson gets here in a tizzy this evening, wondering where the fuck I am …

But no! The last thing I need is more overtures from Wilson … sitting across from my weary ass with those sad eyes … begging me for some sign that our long friendship … if that's what you wanna call it … survived the Tritter garbage still in one piece.

Is it fixable? Who the hell knows? Or cares … 

I made all the amends to Wilson that I ever intend to make. I still have the gift bag with the red necktie … gift tag ripped to hell, but still in there … that he reached across the space between us to hand me. "Charm the judge…" he said with a goofy smile. Yeah. Something like that.

He sat there with his hands hanging loose between his knees, just staring at me. The words of Step Eight flashed through my mind right then: _"Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all …" _

_Crap! If I did that, I'd be here for the next ten years! _

"You did what you did to help me. I understand that."

_Enough said!_

The damn necktie is still in my backpack. What does _that_ tell me?

I finished the cigarette and looked down between my feet where the ashes lay in little piles of gray on the clean floor. Screw it! I have no ashtrays anymore. After the damn infarction, I quit smoking. Well, so much for good intentions! I pushed away from the wall and walked into the kitchen. The fucked-up muscles in my leg felt like somebody was clubbing me with a baseball bat every step I took. I got clean and sober for _this_? I dumped the butt into the sink and ran water over it. Left the remains lay in the trap.

It was time to get the show on the road. No more procrastinating.

I left the kitchen and limped my sorry ass into the bathroom. God, it hurt! Stripped to the skin, dumped the stinking clothes in the empty hamper.

_Christ! Wilson even did my laundry!_

I paused and looked at myself clinically in the mirror.

The ol' bod was gaunt. Pale.

"_Prison Pallor!"_

My skin looks kind'a like cardboard … that thin gray stuff that lines the bottoms of shipping boxes. It makes me shiver, and I look further down at my body. My ribcage reminds me of a xylophone, my hips like the skeletal ribs of an old ship. Even my goddamn pecker is starving to death … can't even remember the last time it got into anything … interesting.

And the leg … the underlying cause of all my recent troubles: it's a mess from hip to toes. The surgical scar goes all the way to the femur, and looks like the meteor crater in the Arizona desert. The pain gouges at it like lightning strikes around the lip of the crater. Circulation is impaired below the knee and causes no end of problems …

Christ! My teeth are chattering like a dog shitting bones! 

The sight of my leg sickens me. It tells me how fragile my body has become. I'd always hated looking at it, and usually avoided it, even in the shower. Some sadistic gremlin inside my head keeps telling me that if I don't look, that huge wound isn't there.

I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the overpowering need for a Vicodin.

"_Admitted we were powerless over drugs … that our lives had become unmanageable."_

I finally sucked it up and got into the shower, hot as I could stand it without cooking … and stood there like a zombie for at least ten minutes. Soaking. Standing on the one foot that would hold me. Hurting. Biting my lip.

A big gob of shampoo in the palm of my hand cleansed me from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, and let me lose the rehab stench. Anything remaining'll just have to _wear_ off! I let the water rinse me down again until it ran clear at the bottom of the tub. I did that twice!

I got out of there the same way I got in. Sat on the edge of the tub and lifted the right leg over the side, then followed through with the left. I dried myself down and then reached for the cane.

In the bedroom, I dressed sparingly. I would need boots for the length of time I'd be spending on the bike. Quality running shoes when not.

I pulled on jeans, socks and a tee shirt, then found the boots I bought shortly after I got the Honda crotch rocket for five-grand of Wilson's money. They have composition soles, but soft uppers, and they've got zippers up the insides of the ankles. Excellent! They're lightweight. Absolutely essential to counteract the punishment I'll be giving the damn leg.

I dug out other casual clothing, my old man's U. S. Marines canteen, an old Swiss Army knife, and the sleeping bag I had since I was a kid. Other odds and ends, as I thought of them, completed my "ensemble." It took two trips for me to lug it all into the living room.

An hour later, I had everything I needed packed and ready to go. An old tin candy box in my underwear drawer yielded $1600.00 in twenties. I stashed $400 under two strips of duct tape at the ankle of the right boot and another $400 in the left. Insurance against a possible mugging. The other half I jammed into a front jeans pocket. Maybe I'd look for a safer place to stash it … later.

My wallet, with five one-hundred-dollar bills, went into the left hip pocket of my jeans. I still needed to stop at the nearest ATM and pull out more cash. I wouldn't be using any credit cards once I left the state. Nobody needed to know shit about which direction I'd taken … or even a hint that I'd taken any direction at all!

_For all anybody knows, I could be sound asleep under my fucking bed!_

By 2:00 p.m. the bike was packed; both saddlebags stashed with clothing and goodies I'd never miss if it got lost. I lashed the sleeping bag to the back of the saddle. The next-to-useless substitute pills were still in the backpack … along with a stash of snacks, a few first aid supplies, what was left of the roll of duct tape, a tiny bar-b-que grille and a raft of "just-in-case" items I stuck in there and probably wouldn't give another thought to …

My cell phone would pose a dead giveaway to my position, so I stashed it in the old tin candy box where the twenties had been, and hid it back in my underwear drawer. Where I was headed, I wasn't about to contact anybody, or have anybody try to contact me.

As far as I'm concerned, it's a win-win situation!

The apartment looks pretty much the same as it did when I got here, except for the dirty clothes in the hamper, the cigarette ashes on the floor, and the doused butt in the sink.

Wilson will find 'em all tonight when he stops by to check. He'll scratch his head and wonder where the hell I was when he stopped at rehab to pick me up … and why I'm not waiting for him here.

Screw him! Let him wonder!

I clicked the cane into its place on the side of the bike.

Downtown, I hit the ATM for another wad of cash, and the Honda and I left Princeton at 3:30 p.m., headed south.

It was March … cold and windy … and in North Carolina there would be nothing but warm breezes and sunshine!

"On the road again … I can't wait to get on the road again …" 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

9


	3. Chapter 3

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Three -

"On The Road Again"

Once I got out of town, I headed south on 295, letting the miles melt away like butter under the Honda's screamin' engine. For the first couple hundred miles, I want to put as much highway between New Jersey and me as the law'll allow.

_The Law … thinking of "Tritter" here …g'bye forever, you moron!_

It's getting on toward late afternoon, and I intend to be across the river and into Delaware by the time darkness hits.

A bunk at a truck stop over there somewhere is beginning to feel like a good idea. It's been a long time since I've taken this baby on any kind of road trip, and I'm a little weaker than I thought I'd be. Six weeks cooped up between the four walls of a looney bin doesn't do much to keep a man's muscles limbered up, especially if some of them don't limber up at all.

Yeah, I'm stiff and sore, I admit it. My leg is buzzing like hell, and the lightning strikes that keep hitting at the rim of the crater make me flinch every time one of them lands. The rest of me isn't faring much better.

Forty-five freakin' days of sitting my crippled ass on lumpy furniture and hard straight-back chairs, drinking inky black coffee, couldn't even keep me awake … much less interested. Spitting stupid slogans and platitudes back and forth with a bunch of dead-eyed, slack-jawed idiots, did nothing but put that crippled ass to sleep … along with my brain.

I should stop bitching though. I'd planned for this trip every day of those six weeks, ever since the quality of the drunkalogues during group sessions went downhill, commensurate with the mental acuity of the halfwits spouting them.

A lot of the group therapy meetings … which were held twice a day, with a combined NA/AA meeting in the evenings, when they allowed recovering people from outside groups to visit … turned into profane, accusatory screaming matches that made the color of my own blue language seem lily white by comparison.

I stopped listening to that shit after the second day, and started counting in my head all the ways I could think of to get the fuck out of there and off somewhere by myself.

But you don't get to be by yourself much in rehab!

I longed to return to the sanity of "Earth People".

God, how I missed my little TV and my GameBoy! Even my yo-yo.

But I voiced it only once.

"Not allowed! You're here to _get clean and sober."_

_Fuck you!_

I remember sitting and staring at the walls … or what you could _see_ of the walls! Most of the space was plastered full of posters and slogans. Twelve Steps. Twelve Traditions. Serenity Prayer. Lord's Prayer.

"Live and Let Live" … "Think, Think, Think" … "One Day At A Time" … "Let Go and Let God" … "Keep It Simple, Stupid" …"I'm a Friend of Bill W. and Dr. Bob." (It took me a month before I found out who the hell _those_ guys were!)

Everywhere you looked, the damned posters covered the walls; smaller ones stood on little placards at every dining table and on the tables that held the ubiquitous coffee urns … even on the nightstands of every two-man bedroom. By the end of the first week, the crap was plastered to the insides of my eyelids until I wanted to throw up!

But today I'm out of there. I'm on my bike and getting the hell away from as much of humanity as possible. Today is liberation day. Today I'm … like old Marty King said once … "Free at last!"

If the whole thing weren't so pathetic, I would laugh my ass off!

Right now, I'm celebrating the road.

The sun is sliding down across the sky to my right as the bike eats up the miles. It's cold as hell in Jersey at the beginning of March, but the wind that whistles past my face shield is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Nobody is ratchet-jawing in my ear about the miracle of "The Program". Nobody is lecturing me about my lack of "Spirituality", and nobody is calling me a "Loser" because I sat and stared into space, having quickly learned the value of keeping my mouth shut.

I'm on the road again, aiming straight for the balmy breezes of the southern states, and a chance to lose myself in the North Carolina Mountains … and maybe check into a place that was mentioned in an article I read in JAMA … a pain clinic near Raleigh.

I have to laugh when I think of the way some of the wet-brains in rehab would look at me when I stood against the wall of the dayroom, hip-sprung, twirling the cane between my fingers and looking at them as though I was about to chase them into the street with it. None of them knew that I couldn't have chased them across the _room …_ let alone any further than that. So much of my life is ruled by the damned leg! But they didn't know that either. I kept 'em at arms' length with "attitude" … and plenty of it.

The huggy-feely crap they try to hang on you makes my skin crawl, and I made sure not to get caught up in it. Hugging people tends to throw me off balance anyway if I don't watch it, and there's only one person on Earth I let get away with it. That's my Mom.

In rehab I never hurried anywhere, and while walking slowly, I was able to minimize the limp. I guess some of those morons believed I couldn't be trusted not to club them with the cane, because they thought I carried it only with that purpose in mind. I didn't do anything to let them think otherwise.

I never talked voluntarily in group sessions, but sometimes one of the therapists would call on me, and I would have no choice. I usually said something or other off-the-wall, about how their "Higher Power" would make a great character in a science fiction story, but not much good for anything other than that.

Unless you had an IQ of fifty-seven.

I never said: "Hi, my name is Gregg, and I'm a drug addict."

Once I said: "I'm Gregg, and I hate this fucking place!" They didn't ask me to speak much after that. They don't care much for foul language in "group" … and yet they tell you to say what you're thinking.

Hmmmmm …

Nobody sat beside me on purpose at the dinner table, or beside me in "group" unless ordered to do so. With all the bullshit going on, those suspicious looks they gave me turned out to be a little empowering, and I loved that. It made the slugs keep their distance.

I did nothing to convince anyone that I wasn't contemplating suicide. That bugged the shit out of 'em.

_Homicide, maybe … but never suicide!_

And then it was all over but the shoutin'.

Today I was out of there, and I knew they were glad to see me go. They thought they had not reached me, and I did nothing to correct that assumption either.

Damn them!

I'd taken great pains to ignore the posturing and the polly-parroting, and the insincere prayers, spoken only by rote, and the chanting of platitudes … most of which anyone with half a brain could see through.

But the things they were trying to instill within me kept roosting in the back of my brain and stuck fast like shit to a blanket, whether I wanted it to or not. I "_got_" it!

That's why I said, awhile back, that I could recite most of that crap in my sleep.

Maybe that's why I'd rather be dead than take a goddamn Vicodin.

"A Day At A Time"! It's a matter of pride! Proves the validity of that phrase of denial: "I can quit anytime I want …"

_Sure you can, Ace! Fuckin'-A!_

Getting darker now. Car lights coming more visible through the dusk, light standards along the highway flickering to life. The sun is almost down, and it's getting colder. Only a few more miles to the bridge, then into Delaware.

Maybe I'll hole up in a motel for the night. Stand under the hot water and wash some of the stiffness down the drain. I'm feeling really weak. My vision is blurring a little. I have to keep blinking the shadows away. My hands hurt from gripping the handlebars for so long. The heavy gloves don't help much. I may have a small amount of swelling in my fingers. They ache.

I know it's the side effects from these damn meds, but there's nothing I can do about it. Need to get these boots off too.

If I want relief from even a small amount of the pain, these meds are what I have to learn to rely on. For now, anyway.

I need to try to sleep, although that might not be possible.

The pain in my leg is bad.

Wish I had a Vicodin …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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	4. Chapter 4

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Four -

"Where Are You?"

The day was slowly closing in around him. He could feel it settling down like a fat hen on a nest full of eggs. Even from behind the closed door of his office he could hear the faint metallic thump of outer doors closing, and the elevator humming and humming as people made their way home at the end of the workday.

It was 4:15 p.m. and he sat with his tie loosened from his shirt collar, the sleeves rolled meticulously to the elbows; his elbows propped in the middle of the desk, and his chin nested in both palms. A little reminiscent, he thought, of the hen on the nest. Waiting.

First shift workers had been relieved over an hour ago, and some of the second shifters were bustling about on their way to beds-and-meds and preparing to serve the evening meal. Hallway doors thumped open and closed in a regular and familiar rhythm. Even though the "cancer-kids" ward was way down on the other wing, the sounds and smells of this particular time of day was just this side of comforting as he sat there, willing it to be 4:30.

House would be leaving rehab in another ten minutes, and he, James E. Wilson, had promised to give his friend a ride home. They would not be stopping at any bars to celebrate the release, however. Those days were over. Any celebrating the two of them did after today would be done with Pepsi or Mountain Dew. Or O'Doul's or sparkling cider. Something non-alcoholic.

James had attended all the open AA/NA meetings up on the rehab floor on Sunday nights. All of them had. Cuddy, the kids, and himself. Open meetings up there encouraged friends and relatives of recovering alcoholics and addicts to experience a crash course on what "The Program" was all about, and what their loved ones and themselves could expect in the coming days … "One Day At A Time" …

Some outsiders came to the meetings willingly; others not so willingly; some, not at all. Some of the patients on the wing welcomed their families with open arms and tearful reunions. Some, less so. Some had lost everything through their addictions, because their families had long since given up on them and moved on.

Gregory House, "Gregg H." in Program vernacular, was somewhere in between. He encouraged his staff's attendance at open meetings, and acknowledged their support, although somewhat reluctantly. But when meetings actually got underway, he sat as far across the room from them as he could possibly get, and spent the required hour hunched in his seat, playing with his cane or picking at his fingers.

The meetings opened with everyone standing to recite the Serenity Prayer. Then someone read the Twelve Steps, the Twelve Traditions and How It Works.

After that, someone from an outside group stood up to share his or her story. The visitors would hear how that person had been drawn into the use of drugs or alcohol … or both … usually at a very early age … and how he or she had become addicted. They would tell what it was like, what had happened, and what it was like now.

Everyone would rise, then, and recite the Lord's Prayer, and the meeting would end.

During the social times at meetings' conclusion, when coffee and cookies were passed around and conversation encouraged, House would walk over and speak a few words to them. Usually he would acknowledge the fact that they were there, mumble a few awkward words, and then hobble painfully off to his quarters.

Wilson always noticed how Gregg's aloofness seemed upsetting to Cuddy, although she understood a lot more than most of them believed she did.

It also seemed puzzling in the extreme to Foreman, who had never seen House so silent and subdued before. Or so lame! Foreman probably thought it must be very difficult for the man, trying to manage chronic pain without his Vicodin.

Chase, on the other hand, had seen this scenario before in a very personal manner. The very fact of his own presence in the rehab unit was extremely painful for him. But he came anyway even though House had very little in common with Chase's alcoholic mother.

Cameron, however, looked devastated by House's pale, stern face, and Wilson had seen her looking after Gregg's retreating back with raw emotion in her eyes. He was not sure what she expected rehab to do for House … transform him to a warm and fuzzy, sweet and cuddly bunny? If so, she was certainly going to be disappointed, because House was House.

This was the most difficult thing Gregg had ever done in his life, with regard to self-discipline, and Wilson knew it. He could not counsel Cameron. There were some things she had to learn all by herself.

James shifted in his desk chair and glanced at his watch.

It was 4:25 p.m., just enough time to go to the elevator and ride up to the fifth floor. Give House a hand with his backpack … if Gregg would let him … and accompany him out of there with as much dignity as possible. At least there would be no one in the lobby to ogle and whisper. The office staff would be long gone by the time they got down there.

Wilson pulled open the big glass door at the check-in counter of the Rehab Wing and walked up to the desk. He was a little surprised that House was not already there waiting for him. He frowned, and the woman behind the desk looked at him quizzically.

"Dr. Wilson? What are you doing here?"

"I came for Gregg H. I was to pick him up here and drive him home. Where is he?"

"Why, I thought you knew. Gregg went home at noon today. He took a taxi."

"Whaat?" Wilson was instantly alarmed. "But his leg! Was he able to walk all right? How did he look? Did he go straight home?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson. I wasn't here. Tom W. was here." The woman reached for the thick logbook on the opposite side of the desk. "Here … you can see where Gregg logged out. Three minutes past noon. Tom's initials are right beside his signature, and there are no notations on the log, so he must have been able to walk well enough to leave the hospital on his own."

Wilson whirled. He had seen and heard enough. He hurled a "thank you" over his shoulder as he strode out the door and back into the corridor.

He was already pulling out his cell phone as he hurried toward the elevator.

House's cell phone rang and rang, and then switched over to voice mail. "House! If you get this, call me back! I'm on my way over."

He tried the house phone at 221b. The answering machine mocked him in Gregg's voice: "You've reached a number that's no longer in service … go away!"

"House!" Wilson bellowed. "Answer the damned phone!" His words echoed hollowly in the empty hallway. He looked around with a guilty hunch to his shoulders, but no one was there to hear him.

He punched the elevator call button and waited nervously until it dinged to a stop. The door slid open. Empty. He got in and hit the button for the ground floor.

Six people got onboard on the way back down, and he did a slow burn with every stop.

At the ground floor, Wilson exploded out of the car and ran for Cuddy's office. She was there, and so was Eric Foreman. They were discussing a new case on House's watch.

"Cuddy!" He shouted, bursting through her office door. "I was just upstairs to pick up House … and they said he left at noon. Did you know anything about it?"

Cuddy's eyes widened, Foreman stared. It was news to them. The three of them stood and looked at each other.

Wilson turned and tramped back out the door, headed for the underground garage and his Volvo. He was going to rake Gregory House's ass across the coals until his butt turned bright red!

00000000

Wilson pulled up in front of House's place and jammed on the brakes. It was past five o'clock now, and daylight was fleeing the sky. There was no light on in the apartment, and Wilson was already worried. Was Gregg all right? Was he hurt? Ill? Out of his mind with pain? Drunk … God forbid!

What?? 

Wilson stormed in through the outer door and put his shoulder against the door to House's apartment. It was locked.

"House? House! House!"

James fumbled with his keys and finally found the right one. He let himself in, and immediately caught a whiff of spent tobacco. Thank God! He was here!

"House? House … where the hell are you? Are you all right? House?"

No answer.

Wilson hurried through the apartment, room by room, turning on lights as he went. No one was there.

Steve McQueen's cage was empty.

Ahh … fuck … 

Wilson went into the living room and sat down on the couch to think.

The shed!

House kept the damned suicide machine out there during winter months, along with his '91 Dodge Dynasty. With no snow on the frigid ground right now, and no ice to screw up its balance and handling, his friend may have taken the bike out just for the sheer exuberance of being a free man. Wilson pushed himself up from the couch and walked out through the kitchen, let himself out the back door and walked the short distance through the yard.

The padlock hung loose on the door, and he did not need to go inside to know the bike was not there, although the car was! He was not sure whether to be worried or relieved. It was no longer a concern what Gregg was doing … but where in hell he might be doing it. Releasing endorphins by taking a thrill ride? Screaming along a back road somewhere because the pain in his leg was driving him insane and he was trying to outrun it? What?

Wilson took a deep breath to clear his head and trudged back to the apartment, relocked the back door and returned to the couch.

House … where the hell are you? You tear me up when you pull crap like this! What is it you see in me that gives you the right to scare the shit out of me? Do I have a sign on my forehead that screams: "Sucker"???

He stood again, and methodically this time, went through the apartment looking for clues that might tell him where his friend had gone. The hamper in the bathroom contained smelly blue jeans, an old tee shirt, underwear and socks, and a towel and washcloth. Gregg had showered and changed before he went … where?

Wilson had a few thoughts that made the hairs on his arms stand up straight. Would he have gone to a bar? Thrown away those forty-five days of rehab and in the process of getting drunk, returned quickly to a life of addiction? There was a drowned cigarette butt in the sink, but that didn't mean much. He'd taken up smoking again while in rehab.

The bar scene didn't sound like House either. Not now! If nothing else, the man was possessed of an icy determination to stick to something until it was either accomplished, or it killed him. He did not expect Gregg to return home soused to the gills.

Then, what?

Hurt?

He'd been sedentary for six long weeks. He'd had little physical exercise during that time, except for walking around between rooms in the rehab wing. He would be weak and sore, and his leg was probably hurting like hell, so that he had to either move or climb the walls. Could he have piled up the bike somewhere and now lay injured and unconscious by the side of some seldom-traveled road?

Wilson sighed. He called the police and asked for information on any motorcycle accidents. There had been none.

He went out and got in his car and checked every one of Gregg's favorite watering holes within a five-mile radius. None of them had any motorcycles parked out front. None of them had any customers crazy enough to tie one on at a bar and ride a bike there, especially in weather as cold as this.

Wilson went back to House's place, determined to wait until midnight to see if Gregg came home. If not, he would make the rounds again.

He removed his coat and jacket, kicked off his shoes and made himself a comfortable place on the couch. He pulled a blanket up to his chin and catnapped awhile.

At 11:30 p.m. he could not stand it anymore.

Wilson got out his cell phone and called House's number. But the thing just rang and rang. He pulled it away from his ear and stared at it. Where in the hell _was_ he?

In the stillness of the apartment, Wilson heard a faint chiming somewhere. Familiar, but not! He froze and listened. Then it stopped.

What the hell … ?? 

He pushed "stop", and entered House's number again.

Faint. Whispery. He strained to hear.

The tinkling strains of _Baba O'Reilly … _as though it were being played on a tiny music box from somewhere very distant … under water ...

Wilson removed the phone from his ear and held it tightly against his chest. He listened, eyes staring fixedly with the effort of concentration.

The bedroom. The sound was coming from the bedroom, and he moved toward it.

It stopped.

Wilson dialed the number a third time.

_Baba O'Reilly_. No mistaking it. He tiptoed toward the dresser. Pulled open House's sock drawer.

The tune clarified. A tinkling sound of tiny bells.

Wilson placed his own cell phone on the surface of the dresser and reached into the underwear drawer.

There, in an antique candy tin, the tin in which Wilson knew Gregg House kept a wad of twenty-dollar bills, laid the tiny black cell phone that Gregg usually carried on his person. This was Gregg's quick source of cash for GameBoy cartridges, Monster Truck Rally tickets, antique vinyl record albums of old jazz groups, fancy motorcycle gear … this was his stash of mad money. The last Wilson had heard, there was close to $2000 in there!

Now it was empty, except for Gregg's cell phone, which had been hidden in there on purpose. To Wilson, it meant one thing, and one thing only: House was long gone. Where? Why? Who knew? Had he forgotten to turn it off? Gregg was carrying cash, and he was on a mission known only to himself.

The fact that he had not said anything to Wilson was the first clue.

Wilson took Gregg's phone and put it in his pants pocket. Something niggled insistently at his mind, but he couldn't quite figure out what the "niggle" was trying to tell him. He picked up his own phone from the surface of the dresser and returned to the couch.

He sat down again to think.

It was time to take an inventory. Wilson knew this place as though it were his own. He'd stayed here many times over the years, the last of which had been the crazy two weeks or so when he'd been in the process of breaking up with Julie.

Methodically, he began to search through closets and drawers and hidey places.

Then it came to him. Had Gregg put the cell phone in the candy box on purpose? Had he left it as a message to Wilson, the only human being on Earth, who knew him as well as, if not better than himself? House was a lot of things, but absent-minded was not one of them.

Was he daring Wilson to find him? Go after him? Was this some silly game of cat and mouse? He wouldn't put it past House … not for a minute. This might be another of Gregg's methods of distracting himself from his pain. Would he do something like that? Yeah, he probably would.

But the "game" idea didn't quite make sense. This was too elaborate for a game, and quite without any purpose that Wilson could fathom. Unless something serious was involved here! Something that House needed to do. Something he needed to check into or take care of. Something that, if it failed, House expected Wilson to pick up on and follow through. Because he still counted Wilson as his best friend, the friend who knew all the obscure workings of that devious mind … and who would know how and where to look …

If this was true, then the answer wasn't here!

Wilson waited another fifteen minutes, poring over every conversation he could remember that he'd had with Gregory House, going back weeks before his friend had finally entered rehab. There was nothing he could think of which might have supplied him with any other clues.

It was puzzling, and very strange. And the explanation he was looking for was not here in this elegant dump of an apartment.

James threw on his overcoat and went out to his car once again, and headed back to the hospital.

It was 2:30 a.m.

What the hell did he think he was going to find?

Had Gregg House left him a message? Inadvertently or otherwise?

Or had he just simply forgotten to turn off the damned cell phone?

Wilson was determined to find out.

Damn him! I'm gonna bust his ass so bad!!! … If I weren't worried so sick about him … 

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21


	5. Chapter 5

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Five -

"Learning to Scream in a Whisper"

It was fully dark now, at 6:30 p.m., and the wind was turning bitter; the loss of the sun had lowered the temperature by at least ten degrees.

House left Route 295. Crossing the river into Delaware, he connected with US 95 South and headed to Havre de Grace in Maryland at the upper arm of Chesapeake Bay. If he could make it to the giant truck stop and motel there, he would be well on his way. He would be safe from any sort of scrutiny that would make him nervous.

No one in that part of the country would give a second look to some fool cripple on a motorcycle, pulling up in front of a motel to pay cash for a room for the night. At least he _hoped_ that was how it would go.

He pressed on through the night and the thinning traffic on the highway. House found his senses becoming dramatically attuned to close proximity of vehicles careening around him, and in the interim found himself blinking his eyes in an effort to clear his vision. His leg was a pounding ache in his consciousness. Ten miles to go.

He knew he was close when he saw the mushroom-shaped glow in the sky. The giant truck stop was easily as large as one of the many shopping malls on the eastern seaboard. It was probably also twice as bright with the large number of mercury vapor lights on tall poles illuminating every inch of macadam within its many acre boundary.

To House's way of thinking, it resembled the Johnson Space Center or Cape Canaveral just before a shuttle launch. Its bright lights illuminated upward-reaching plumes of diesel exhaust that rose high into the night air.

His gaze wandered over the idling eighteen-wheelers with reefer units, and other rigs with their engines running to keep their heaters in operation. These monsters filled the waiting areas and fueling stations to near capacity. Others, already fueled and ready to hit the road, sat snorkeling through the night while their drivers slept in their cab bunks or in one of the motel units.

Complexes like these, House knew, put a blight on the landscape and dug gouges in the ozone layer, but they were necessary for commerce and essential to the spoiled American way of life. These huge trucks supplied the supermarkets and the fashion outlets, and the warehouses and the factories. They kept the economy rolling, even while they represented a menace to the highways and an imminent danger to anything that had to share the roads with them.

As the Repsol approached its destination, the atmospheric glow seemed to settle closer and closer to the ground. The huge light standards pulled down the smoggy mushroom cloud and drew House's eyes inward to the brightly lit buildings with their neon signs and illuminated marquees. He could hear the clamor of traffic now, as the bike made its final approach off the exit ramp that led from the highway.

He leaned slightly to the right and eased off the gas feed to the powerful little engine. The bike responded immediately, and he clicked down through the gears as it slowed to enter the mammoth parking lot. Headlights bounced past with bug-eyed intensity, while vehicles of all sizes and shapes trundled across and buzzed narrowly around him. A close call with an old VW Beetle produced a shot of adrenaline that forced him to stay focused.

The reduction in velocity caused his ears to pop and the wind shear across his body to drop off rapidly. The change went through his bloodstream like a bullet through water as the Repsol decelerated. The sensation caused a momentary heaviness in his leg that made him hitch his breath and bite down on his tongue. He'd forgotten how an extended road trip at accelerated speeds affected the blood flow at the infarction site, and his body trembled at the initial shock. His hands reacted by losing their grip on the handlebars, causing him to fumble with the gas feed.

The bike responded by bucking, and he nearly lost his hold on the controls. A lightning bolt of pain stung his nervous system and jolted him back to immediate attention as he tightened his fingers and brought the excitable machine back under control.

_Christ!_

He grimaced, lips curling back to bare his teeth in a snarl of anger, as he felt his right foot slide off the bar and dangle uselessly just above the asphalt. The jolt to his adductors accelerated the pain. Another one like that, and he would be flat on his ass on the ground with the fucking bike on top of him. Not a pleasant thought.

House cruised the parking lot slowly, maneuvering around cars, trucks, tourists not paying attention to where they were going, and boisterous children skittering about and making things difficult for drivers and pedestrians alike. He avoided them cautiously, and finally pulling up in front of the office of one of the motels located at the rear of the complex.

House shut down the Honda's engine, clicked down the kickstand, and sat still for a moment. He looked around, making a show of scanning the area to get his bearings. In reality, he knew without a doubt that right then, he had not the strength to dismount without folding into a puddle on the sidewalk.

His ass cheeks were dead asleep, and both legs felt the consistency of Play-Doh. He did not dare attempt to stand or walk right now. He removed the heavy riding gloves and placed them temporarily across the gas tank. He slipped off the lightweight helmet and hung that on the right handlebar. Immediately he felt the intrusion of the cold air against his neck and up the sleeves of the insulated leather jacket.

_Jesus! My ass hurts … and I'm hungry. Wonder if there's a pizza joint …?_

The cold was not conducive to sitting any longer in the windy night. After a time, sensation stole back into his extremities and he began to experiment with the effort of maneuvering his leg over the bike's saddle. It balked, and he ended up grasping it above the knee and finishing the retrieval manually. He reached over and pulled the cane away from its clamps, dropping the rubber tip to the ground, leaning on it before the leg buckled beneath him. Pain! "Ow!" 

He fumbled around for a few more moments, grabbing the heavy leather driving gloves off the gas tank, killing time until his reluctant body finally began to cooperate with his demands.

With feeling coursing through his muscles once again, he turned away from the bike and moved cautiously toward the motel's front door. He pushed it open and stepped into the office, approached the desk gingerly and lay the gloves down on its surface. He hung the cane from the countertop and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, running a fingernail across the seam.

The casually attired attendant had just finished with a group of customers. His back was turned and he was placing a message into a pigeonhole message box along the far wall. House cleared his throat loudly, and the man turned around.

"Yes sir. What can I do for you?"

House squinted and pulled a face filled with long-suffering patience. "I came to pick up my dry cleaning! " He said sarcastically. He shifted his weight in a dramatic fumble to the left, and sighed. "Actually, I thought you might know someone who could get me a room for the night?" His pain made the sarcasm kick up another notch.

The guy stared at the cane and the obvious cant to House's body. His features softened immediately as he saw that the man was quite lame. "Maybe I can help you out with that. Sorry. How many?"

House leaned across the counter and took more of his weight off his leg. "Just me."

"One night?"

"Yeah. Ground floor, okay? I don't do steps very well …"

An aluminum key attached to a plastic paddle jingled down beneath the man's meaty fist. "Room 7-C, down the concourse to the right. Sixty-seven fifty. Cash or charge?"

"Cash," House replied. "Any of the restaurants around here make deliveries?" He dug in his wallet and drew out four twenties, laid them on the surface and flattened them out.

The guy took the money and hit a series of keys on the cash register. Handed House the change. "Yeah … Bonfatto's Pizza. They're open all night. Anything else?"

House shook his head and straightened. He picked up his gloves and cane, and turned to leave. His knee buckled suddenly and he nearly fell.

Behind him, the attendant was out around the desk in an instant, his hands buoying House upright with pressure beneath his elbow.

House looked at the man with wide-eyed surprise, hop-stepped once and regained his balance.

"You okay, sir?" He let go of House's arm and stepped back.

House nodded. "Yeah … thanks. Sorry about that …"

"It's okay. You need some help getting down to the room?"

"No. I'm fine. Long time on the road. It's … I'm …tired …"

The man nodded briefly and returned to his place behind the desk.

House could feel curious eyes digging into his back as he limped through the door and returned to the bike.

He lifted his leg over the saddle again and restarted the engine.

The Repsol hummed to life, and he accelerated slowly, letting it idle along the short distance to 7-C. He parked it and shut off the engine again, withdrew the ignition key and slipped it into his pocket, then zipped it shut.

He fit the motel key into the door lock and went inside. It was nothing fancy, but it would do. He dropped the gloves, the helmet and the backpack on the double bed and turned around to retrieve some things from the bike's saddlebags. He got what he needed and activated the locking mechanism on the transmission, then went back inside. He closed the door securely and set the lock.

He sank down on the bed wearily and pulled the necessary meds from his backpack. He swallowed the pills one at a time until the dose was complete. He removed the riding boots and tossed them aside. Removed the leather jacket and threw it on the chair in the corner. It was warm in the room, and he was grateful for that. His tired body needed to be thawed out.

After awhile, House finally summoned the energy to order a small pizza, a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bag of chips. Bonfatto's told him to expect delivery in about an hour.

He got undressed and languished in the shower, letting the hot water seep into his bones. His leg radiated with pain that made him want to weep. He didn't. He bit his lip until he could taste his own blood. Even then, a whimper escaped unbidden.

House deposited the threadbare jeans and smelly tee shirt in the garbage and changed into fresh clothing. He sat down on the bed, turned on the TV and rubbed at his thigh.

When the pizza finally arrived, he ate two slices and dumped the rest. He finished off a Mountain Dew, wishing like hell for a beer instead, and stashed the other five cans in the backpack.

His leg tamed down a little and he tried to sleep. He was only partially successful. The ache was insistent.

He sucked it up and rode it out and screamed in a whisper inside his head …

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26


	6. Chapter 6

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Six -

"Needle In A Haystack"

At 2:30 in the morning, most of the city was tucked in for the night. Streets were pretty much deserted, and even traffic lights in outlying areas flashed red and amber. All-night convenience stores, hunched low on corner lots, tickled their rundown neighborhoods with blinking neon. All of it beckoned to night dwellers with smells of hot dogs and strong coffee, and tempted people's tobacco addictions with oversize cigarette signs.

Wilson drove cautiously, as usual, not pushing it, taking time to ponder the unexpected emptiness of Gregg House's apartment, and the puzzling question of where in hell the man might have gone.

PPTHospital loomed near the center of town, its symmetrical rows of windows lighting the wards brightly, while leaving office areas nearly dark with ghostly glow from the hallways. Light standards in the institution's parking lots were slightly dimmed in the late night hours, but the circle of the emergency room entrance gave the illumination of midday to the area below.

Wilson drove the Volvo around back and parked in the employees' garage. He left the car in its designated space, got out and slammed the door a bit harder than he'd meant to. His action and subsequent movements attested to his state of mind, and his brain whirled in double time as he sought a solution to his friend's sudden disappearance. The answer he was seeking did not lie back at the apartment, and therefore must be somewhere in the fourth floor diagnostics department, in House's office, a few doors away from his own.

Wilson strode through the hallway and into the almost empty lobby. He made a beeline for the same elevator he'd ridden down in earlier, and pressed the "up" button. The car had been resting vacant, and its doors opened immediately. He jabbed the control for the fourth floor and rode it up there with an impatience he seldom experienced.

He wondered what it was he expected to find. If he actually _did_ find anything, would he notice its significance? Or would he pass on by, unaware? He was a little concerned, more than a little worried, and highly uncertain of his own ability to ferret out whatever it was that might tell him what he was looking for.

His brain didn't work like House's. Would he pick up on a clue if he found one?

As a rule, Gregory House was constitutionally incapable of keeping his mouth shut about anything that coursed through his labyrinth of a mind. If he thought it, he almost always spouted it to Wilson. Groused about it, rolled it around on his tongue and thought about it out loud until sometimes Wilson could hear Gregg's grumblings in his dreams.

But in the last month before House finally took himself off to rehab, he had been experiencing an unusual amount of leg pain. His verbal excursions had pretty much diminished behind icy personal barriers.

Wilson's keys jingled against the heavy plate glass of the door to the diagnostics suite, and the oncologist slid inside and crossed to House's desk. He pulled out the expensive ergonomic office chair and flopped down in it wearily, glancing around the deserted room.

_Where in the hell do I start?_

He sat motionless for a few minutes, facing the window where a string of streetlights spread dim phosphorescent shadow images across the carpet and partway up the opposite wall. Objects in the room stood out in bas-relief in the backlight from the street, giving them an otherworldly glow. Wilson stared, unseeing, lost in thought.

This section of the fourth floor was quieter than most, because this particular wing was given over to office space for the hospital's department heads and their staffs. There was no hustle-bustle here, as could be found on the wards in the opposite wing at the end of the hallway where his cancer patients fought their unending battles.

Wilson studied the neatly kept expanse of Gregory House's private office with an appraising eye. It was Spartan in many ways, unless one knew how to interpret Gregg's eclectic tastes. There were no framed photographs of friends or family members, no diplomas or professional commendations adorning the walls. There was a noticeable lack of mementoes and keepsakes from grateful patients, and nothing that spoke particularly of personal pride, passion or sentimentality.

Yet, there was a sense of guarded elegance throughout. It was a self-contained masculine landscape of well-chosen artifacts that, if one understood how to interpret it, shouted its occupant's long dedication to the profession that governed his life and sustained his deeply guarded, solitary soul.

Wilson understood this completely, and in the understanding, he allowed House every leeway, every concession of which he was capable. After many years of deep respect and awed admiration, there was nothing James denied his unique friend. There was nothing of his own that he would not sacrifice to protect this brilliant child-man from his own machinations, and from the dark, uncaring world that sometimes threatened to destroy him.

Wilson sighed deeply and stood up. He removed his coat and hung it neatly over the back of the chair. He stood for a minute in the middle of the floor, facing the hallway, and drew a hand thoughtfully across the back of his neck, wondering where to begin. He pulled off his necktie and draped it over his coat; began rolling up his sleeves. Again.

This could take all night!

And in the meantime, Gregory House might return home and never realize Wilson had been there. Not likely, but possible.

To his right, the barrister's bookcase with its glass-enclosed shelves invited him closer with the sheer mass of the materials it housed. He looked through the dust-fogged glass at the contents, realizing immediately that there was nothing within it that had been disturbed for at least a year. Maybe longer. Some of the dog-eared folders and pamphlets looked to be more than ten times that old. There was no use even opening the thing to check it out. No, he was looking for something much more recent than that.

He moved around to his right, past the glass balcony door where the two of them would often look across the expanse of brick and mortar and concrete to check on the activities of the other. He sidestepped slowly beyond the three-tiered teacart that held the ancient television set, the VCR-DVD combination and a stack of old phonograph albums.

Nothing there.

The large combination bookcase-worktable beneath the expanse of windows with their long, vertical blinds, was a storehouse of medical artifacts and promising folders. Wilson knelt down and ran his fingers across the bindings of materials on the first shelf.

Most of them were case files from times more recent … since House's fellows had been added to the mix. Most contained DDX notes and patient stats. He could see notations in Cameron's neat script, Chase's illegible scrawl, and Foreman's dark and heavy hand. There was nothing there that suggested further exploration.

He moved to the second shelf and encountered more of the same. Many of the folders there contained pages and pages of notes that Wilson was surprised to discover were actually lined-notebook pages of his own chicken scratch. Frowning, he found that these long-completed files, all grouped together in colorful folders, included most of his own theories and suggestions on cases that indicated requests for cancer scans.

_Why in the world would House bother to keep these?_

He shrugged and replaced the folders where he'd found them, still baffled by their existence. He moved on.

The bottom shelf contained a text on Lupus, an old Gray's Anatomy, a textbook on Nephrology, and another stack of old record albums.

He still had no leads that might provide a solution to the problem.

There were only two more places to look: the file cabinet beneath the Sota turntable, and House's computer. Wilson moved to the sleek metal file cabinet and sat down on the floor in front of it. He opened the top drawer and fingered his way through the neatly arranged procession of files. Obviously the touch of Cameron. Correspondence, case files, diagnostic results. Nothing there. Wilson put everything back in order and closed it up. Opened the bottom drawer.

Again, the files were neat and in order. He walked his fingers through them, front to back. Stopped on a folder titled: "Research". The tab was marked in red, in House's distinctive spidery handwriting. Light bulbs went off in Wilson's head. He knew he'd finally hit pay dirt.

The folder contained a single page of computer printout, and it was dated September 12, 2005.

It was a small article in a year-old issue of JAMA, entitled: "Rural Doctor Making Dramatic Strides in Pain Management".

Raleigh NC:

"Recent studies have revealed some insight into the areas of medical technology and the study of chronic pain management," says Kevin 'Kip' Bernoski, M. D., director of Paramar Clinic near here.

Bernoski, a native of nearby Wake Forest, and a graduate of North Carolina State University, and Cornell University Medical School, stopped to talk with this reporter Monday afternoon.

"We have made significant strides in the areas of pain control, which will be of great interest to people with muscle and nerve damage, previously uncontrolled through pain therapy and other pain medications. Microscopic surgical implants, inserted into damaged muscles and/or muscle groups, have shown promising results in test subjects. Studies are continuing and are showing signs of increasing success," Bernoski stated.

"People living with chronic pain cannot wait much longer for some kind of progress to be made in this greatly misunderstood area.

"Those in chronic pain do _not_ get better, do _not_ improve with time, and do _not_ have an obligation to put up a brave front to an indifferent world which simply does not care to take the time to understand.

"The work we do at Paramar is centered on the goal of _not_ pain management, but pain eradication."

Bernoski did not elaborate further.

More information may be obtained at www//http. gathered his long legs under him and sat Indian fashion, staring into space and letting his brain begin to reach outward, to fit itself around this astounding information. He had not been aware of this article, or others like it before, and Gregory House had certainly not confided in him about it.

The small amount he had read previously about Nano-technology and its many medical possibilities, were noncommittal in scope. He knew there were cancer studies being conducted at Sloan-Kettering and other large cancer institutions, nationally and internationally, utilizing this radical technology, but he had heard nothing about a breakthrough that would bring relief for many sufferers of constant debilitating pain.

Like House!

James had never tossed this type of information around recklessly. Instilling false hope in people often proved fruitless, and tended to do more harm than good.

He picked up the article, read through it again, and felt an icy shiver of trepidation skitter down his backbone. House was not normally a man who jumped at straws or followed blindly along a path of miracle cures. What was he missing here that motivated Gregg to strike out on a long, cold motorcycle journey? House probably had little hope of using any of this for his own problem. _What was it?_

In truth, the quadriceps muscle in House's right leg was missing. The nerves in that area had been short-circuited by invasive emergency surgery. The leg would never be normal again. His pain was debilitating and ongoing. Was he that desperate to find a way to put an end to it?

Wilson sighed sadly. It was possible that Gregg was just exactly that desperate. A long journey in the cold, on a damn motorcycle, was a dangerous and foolish thing to do, no matter how desperate you were.

He sat for a few more minutes, fighting tears that threatened to overcome him. He had not seen this coming. House had said nothing about it to anyone … especially not to him. No one had come to him with subtle questions about what it was House might be up to, or why he was acting suddenly mysterious.

After awhile, Wilson got to his feet and flopped back into the big office chair at Gregg's desk. He reached to Gregg's computer stack and turned it on, then activated the modem as his worry escalated. It was a fact of life that he spent a lot of time fretting about Gregory House, but right now, the hairs at the back of his neck were standing straight up.

The monitor screen popped to life with a saucy, full-length photo of Carmen Electra, posed in a skimpy costume that left little to the imagination. Wilson snorted with ironic laughter. House's devious mind could be so freaking literal!

He held the article in his hand so that he could see the URL in the dim light, then typed in Gregg's password that he had laughed like hell about when House first told him about it: "IBSteveMcQueen2".

Of course! House changed his passwords more often than Wilson changed his socks. Fortunately, he hadn't changed it again before doing his disappearing act.

Wilson typed in the address of the medical site, and the screen flipped to an image of tiny metal spiders parading like toy soldiers, smaller than grains of sand, across an exposed human arm. The site was titled: "Paramar Clinic, Raleigh, North Carolina: Promising Breakthroughs in the Management of Chronic Pain. How You Can be a Part of Our Team".

Wilson read over the information voraciously for a little over fifteen minutes. He read some of it twice … three times. Four.

If any of this innovative medicine-related stuff lived up to the expectations of the researchers, and if it was authentic and on the recommended lists with AMA, he could readily understand House's desire to learn more …and also his need to keep it to himself for the time being.

This was something House would never allow himself to be talked out of by someone with a suspicious nature, such as himself. This was why House got sneaky about going to North Carolina to check it out. Six hundred miles, straddling a metal Popsicle in twenty-degree weather. And he, with a crippled leg that he could never keep warm enough anyway, and subsisting on medications that would barely keep the worst of his pain at bay!

Wilson clicked the "print" icon and made himself copies of the clinic's list of research grants and the corporations that had given them. He printed two copies each of the materials he had just read, and the names of the physicians who had lent their names and their talents to the infant program. He folded them and put them into his jacket pocket, and then shut down Gregg's computer.

James Wilson hurried back to the ground floor and let himself into Lisa Cuddy's office with the master key few people knew he possessed. He walked calmly across to her desk and lifted the corner of her desk blotter. He placed a copy of each paper there, trusting that she looked under it seldom. Immediately thereafter, he left again and locked up behind himself. Bases covered!

The little wheels inside Wilson's brain did not shut down. They did not even _slow_ down.

He retraced his steps and drove back to his drab hotel room with a plan beginning to germinate in the back of his mind. He got out a pad and pencil and commenced writing:

He needed to grab his laptop, his medical bag and the charger for his cell phone … and he needed to get a pile of supplies ready to make tracks out of there.

While he was at it, he needed to call a rental agency somewhere and reserve a car that looked nothing like a clunky silver Volvo.

In the middle of the damn night!

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32


	7. Chapter 7

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Seven -

"Strangers In the Night"

Somewhere around two in the morning, he was roused by sounds outside the window that grated on his senses like fingernails down a blackboard. There came the shuffling of feet and snatches of whispering. It brought him alert quickly, proving that subliminal stimulus could be even more insistent than the waking variety …

He'd been lying on his left side, his right leg resting atop the left in a defensive position he seemed to be assuming more and more lately. The sound left leg was almost straight, cradling the weaker right one, which was slightly bent at the knee and folded into the contours of the left, almost in the manner of a porcelain sculpture nested into its molded Styrofoam box. Safe from harm, even from his restless stirrings in the night.

House lay still for another moment, then shifted his weight by degrees and levered himself to a sitting position on the lumpy bed. His right leg would not straighten at first, and for the hundredth time he cursed the inadequacy of the non-narcotic medications, which were next to useless for his needs. He swung around gradually in the darkness and dropped his feet to the thin-carpeted floor. He froze in place and listened.

It was silent, except for the intermittent rumble-snorkel of big-rig traffic getting ready to hit the road just before daylight. Then the quieter shuffling sounds rose upward in his consciousness again. There were two male voices, maybe more, right outside his door and too close for his liking.

The bike was out there! The Repsol stood ten feet from the front door of his room, and it still contained much of the stuff he could not summon the strength to bring into the room with him. If he remembered correctly, one of the saddlebags still had a wad of $100 bills rolled up in it. And his junk food stash and clean underwear! It wouldn't do for all those goodies to fall prey to the hands of intruders.

Laboriously, he pulled on socks, and then struggled into blue jeans. His leg had been relaxed and in a semi-coma awhile ago, but now it was waking up with new and strident demands for medication. He bit his lip and rode the wave of sudden pain, fumbling in the dark for the three pill vials, and for the riding boots he'd kicked to the side.

House rolled the pills into his palm, then threw back his head and took them all. He was becoming almost as adept with a handful as he had formerly been with a single Vicodin. Even with this increased dexterity, however, he still wished mightily for the high dosage of hydrocodone. One day at a fucking time!

He pulled on the boots easily, and zipped them up. In one motion, he stood, taking his weight on the left side, grabbed the leather jacket and helmet off the side chair, and reached for his constant companion, the cane. He had a feeling the shit was about to hit the fan. Gregg made no noise and no sudden movements as he slid into the jacket and helmet.

He was about to pull the biggest bluff since Helen Keller went to the movies!

Limping ponderously, he moved slowly toward the front door of the room and grasped the doorknob in his left hand. The tiny slit that let in a shaft of light from the parking lot, afforded him a narrow glimpse of three curiously garbed young men standing near the Honda. Angrily, he drew himself to his full, impressive height, and drew the door inward all the way.

Gregory House stood in the open doorway of the dark motel room and glared at the men who stood too-close-for-comfort to his motorcycle. With the black helmet in place and the black leather jacket casting off a dark matte sheen in the glare of distant headlights, he appeared quite as imposing as a super-villain action figure from a child's nightmare.

Slowly, he crossed his arms across his chest, cocked the lame leg in front of the other one, and leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. He held the cane like a war lance in the crook of one arm so that its curved handle dangled, in obvious threat, toward the ground. He tilted his head to insure that the outside lights gleamed off the helmet, and stared at the trio with a menacing expression that somehow imitated amusement.

"Something there that interests you boys?" He snarled. He let his narrowed eyes travel appraisingly up and down across their bodies, as though scouting for the most vulnerable places with which to brandish the cane.

Three heads snapped up in alarm. One of them held a screwdriver in his fist; the perfect tool for disabling the locks on the saddlebags. House's eyes moved in a straight line from the young man's fist to his face, and back.

Slowly and deliberately then, he withdrew his right arm from the strategic pose and advanced his hand toward the jacket pocket. "I'd put that away if I were you," he said smoothly. "There are no screws loose on that bike. I checked. There might be some screws loose on you though. If you'd like, I can come over there and make sure they're all tightened …"

House grinned behind the face shield of the helmet, and it was not a pretty sight.

The three froze for a moment, like deer in the headlights, their eyes centered on the large right hand that was advancing into the depths of the jacket pocket. Then one of them muttered something, and as though on cue, all three turned on their heels like the cowards they were, and fled into the darkness toward the rear of the motel.

House's spinal column suddenly felt reduced to putty, and his knees to mush. Sometimes it paid to look tall and angry and tough. He felt anything but! He pressed his back into the solid support of the metal doorframe, shaking uncontrollably with the release of adrenaline rush.

Oh fuck! Thank God they didn't catch onto the "pathetic" … 

He pulled off the helmet and hurled it into the room and onto the bed. His body radiated with spent tension, and his leg hurt so bad he wanted to scream. But he didn't. He lowered his chin until it rested on his chest. He tossed the cane onto the bed with the helmet and gripped his thigh with his right hand, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing …

Sometimes he would look at his hand, with its broad callus running the length of its heel, and sometimes marveling that he still had fingerprints left. His fingertips were shiny these days, just from the friction caused by massaging those useless muscles and working away the spasms and hints of spasms from the most drastically damaged area of his thigh.

He stood there, breathing heavily from the ordeal, shoring up the strength to move out of the open doorway and attempt to go back to bed. This experience would have been no biggie for a man of full strength, who could back up the threats he'd made. But when faced with bodily harm, he knew he would always come out on the short end of the stick. His balance was precarious at best, his pain threshold lowering every day, and his fear of impending pain a constant threat to his sanity.

He eyed the bike and knew he wouldn't rest anymore that night with it standing out there and vulnerable to every asshole with a thought to fucking around with something that didn't belong to him. He felt a peal of ironic laughter welling up from deep in his throat. He let it happen and rode with it, standing there grinning like some simpleton over the fact that in the world of "survival of the fittest", he should have been left to die along the trail many moons ago.

When he had recovered his breath and a little of the pain had retreated from the cramping sensations in his thigh, Gregory House limped piteously out to the Repsol, unlocked the transmission, and grasped the handlebars with both hands.

Using the front of the bike as a crutch, he guided it carefully through the door and into the motel room. He had to turn the handlebars to the right, and then sharply back to the left to get them to clear the sides of the door. When it was inside, he closed and locked the door and lowered the kickstand. The damned thing blocked the entrance to the bathroom, but that couldn't be helped. There was no other way, unless he wanted to sleep with it.

Fuckin' A … you tell 'em, Ace! 

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	8. Chapter 8

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Eight -

"Mudding Up the Waters"

In front of the full-length mirror on the inside of her bathroom door, she studied her reflection critically. The years were beginning to show. Not in a bad way. She knew that.

Her time on Earth had given her kind face a resonance that reached outward with the expectation of honor from everyone around her. Her honesty and professionalism imbued her with qualities that came back as profound respect from nearly anyone who dealt with her, professionally or personally. She was the consummate administrator, the final authority, the holder of the scrolls, and the keeper of the flame.

Nearing the age of forty now, she was diminutive of stature, but substantial of mind. Her integrity was unquestioned, her leadership unchallenged, and her sense of the absurd almost legendary. She sparred with her Chief of Diagnostics on a daily basis, and that alone caused some of the staff to gaze on her with awe.

Her long, silken black hair hung in soft waves below her shoulders like a fall of ebon water, and her eyes were cerulean with long black lashes. She was trendy, fashionably tacky, and very aware of her demeanor. She still held herself aloof most of the time among strangers, but her door was always open to friends and colleagues and each and every subordinate, and her kind heart was eminently reachable.

There were two soft and cushy spots in Lisa Cuddy's heart that resided at the very core of everything she cared about and stood for. Try as she might to have it otherwise, those two soft spots influenced every decision she made and every tough confrontation she would much rather avoid.

Their names were James Wilson and the aforementioned Gregory House.

Some time ago, House had told her that she would have made a lousy mother, because she sucked at it. The knife had gone deep into her consummate self, left her considerable ego battered and bloody. She had wept silently and privately at odd times for days after that.

And then one day House had ended up in drug rehab. Surprisingly, he had conceded to her (in private, of an evening) in a quiet and shamed manner that he had spoken out of turn and out of spite, and he was truly sorry for those cruel words …

… and if she ever told _anyone_ he had admitted that, he would _never_ speak to her again! She did not believe him for a moment, but she did not breach his confidence, nor stoop to say anything dismissive. His pathway at that time was difficult enough.

And ultimately, she forgave him for calling her a "bad mother." Because that wasn't true!

Because in the hallowed halls of this hospital, she was "Mama Bear", "Big Bad Mama", "Mother Superior".

She had heard this stuff so long she had begun to believe it.

Now, staring unseeing at her reflection in the mirror, she pondered the strange phone call she'd received a half hour ago.

James Wilson, hollow-voiced with fatigue, had called on her phone at home, informing her that, had she not answered, he would have left a message telling her that neither he nor Gregory House would be coming to work next week, and possibly not the next, or even the one after that.

But she had picked up the phone just before the answering machine beeped in, and he could not get away with being vague. He'd had to talk to her …

When Wilson had seen her briefly that day, after he'd discovered that House had left rehab … and the hospital … without a word to anyone, it had made him suspicious. James had gone to House's apartment looking for him, but he wasn't there either. After a cursory sweep of the place, he'd discovered that some of House's clothing was missing, along with some of the things around his apartment that he hated to be without.

Then, when he'd gone looking for the Honda motorbike, it was gone also.

After that, Wilson had hemmed and hawed and reverted to vagueness again, explaining that he needed to find his friend because of the ineffectiveness of the medications House was now being forced to take.

"I need to find him," Wilson said. "He's pissed off and stubborn as a mule, and trying to convince himself that the damned prescriptions for Neurontin, Ultram and a damn bottle of Advil are enough to control chronic pain as severe as his!"

Cuddy had let him rave, and when he grew silent again, she'd asked, simply: "What is it that frightens you, Dr. Wilson? From the stress in your voice, I can tell there's something you're not telling me …"

He'd hesitated, and then evidently decided to place necessity ahead of valor. "He's taken off on the bike. It's twenty degrees outside. His leg will certainly be unstable at best, and we both know it goes downhill from there. He told me once that he can't keep it warm in this kind of weather, and poor circulation often causes his foot to swell. He might find it nearly impossible to walk. I'm worried. He's not fit to be out there … and I'm going after him.

"I know he has an aunt somewhere in Delaware, who he was close to as a kid. I have a feeling he's headed there. Don't tell me 'no', Dr. Cuddy. I'd only have to disobey you, and I don't want to do that."

She'd paused to consider his words for a time. She'd bitten her lip and stared at the ceiling while he waited, breathless, on the other end of the line. Finally, she'd conceded. She had never understood the two men's strange affinity for one another, but she knew without a doubt that it was very strong between them. If anyone on Earth could talk some sense into Gregory House, it was this gentle, caring man.

"You have my permission, Dr. Wilson." She finally said. "You have the three weeks you requested. We can work around your absence. Bring him back with you … safe and sound. If you don't … at the end of the three weeks, I will send out bloodhounds and St. Bernards with whiskey kegs around their necks."

He did not laugh at the lame joke. She had not expected him to.

When they finally rang off, she had no doubts he was out of there like a flash, hitting the road downstate, on a quest to who-the-hell-knew-what!

Cuddy had not questioned him further, but gave her blessing on blind faith.

"Mama Bear!"

But that was a mistake. She _should_ have asked more questions!

Should have known James Wilson was lying through his teeth!

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38


	9. Chapter 9

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Nine -

"Wonder-Boy Oncologist Rides Again"

Hertz and Avis were both open all night. Avis was closer to Wilson's second-floor hotel walkup, so that was the one he chose.

_Avis tried harder …_

Stupid one-liners in the middle of the night! He was so tired he was talking to himself. The thing was, it wasn't going to get any better. House had a good head start on him, and he didn't dare delay much longer.

He could feel the beginnings of a headache digging in behind his ears.

_Damn!_

Earlier, Wilson had dragged a bundle of necessities outside to the curb and loaded them into the Volvo. Casual clothes and a suit were packed into a worn leather suitcase, along with a couple of House's old tee shirts and ragged sweat pants that he'd kept buried among his personal items for years. After thinking about it awhile, he stashed his oversized heating pad in there too. And his well stocked, little used medical bag. And his laptop. No telling what he would run up against on this strange adventure.

Everything he knew about his friend had gone from "carved in stone" to "what-the-hell" in a very short time. He knew he should have seen it coming … but he hadn't. He had

only wanted to help House, but he'd become an enabler instead, and a betrayer. The bottle of Vicodin deep in his jacket pocket represented every kind of bad idea, but picturing House delirious with pain had spurred him on. House with microscopic mechanical bugs imbedded in that wasted muscle didn't exactly turn him on either.

When and if he caught up to Gregg, he would probably be viewed as excess baggage, supercargo; kinda like a deck chair on the _Titanic …_ but he had to know. Had to be there; House's current condition, combined with his impulsive nature, was going to require both a physician … _and_ a friend. James had done enough damage. Now it was time to perform some necessary repairs.

Two old blankets stuffed into a plastic shopping bag completed his collection, and he stood beside the Volvo with hands on hips, biting his lip in concentration, wondering if he'd forgotten anything important.

House's cell phone rested deep in one pocket of his windbreaker, and in the other, his fingers closed around the contours of the slender amber cylinder he'd brought from the hospital and buried deeply. Maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he was way out of line. Maybe, in his zeal to help his friend, he was doing more harm than good. Again. But he'd gotten his prescribing privileges back, and the Vicodin was there in case everything else tanked. Gregory House should not be forced to deal with yet another failure in what seemed a lifetime full of them in recent years.

James sighed, and felt the sting of bitter tears at the corners of his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no stake in this, other than his worry for House, and no business following a man who was on a quest of his own choosing. He had broken into House's home, and into his professional office. He had stolen information that was very private, and had experienced no sense of guilt.

He'd lied by omission to Lisa Cuddy, who did not deserve to be lied to. He'd betrayed Gregg in the worst kind of way, and felt no reason for apology. If House found out he was being shadowed all the way across four states, he would not be in a forgiving mood.

Hell, he was _already _not in a forgiving mood!

Wilson had no idea what would happen at the end of the journey … for either of them. He only knew he had to be there. Had to keep Gregg safe. From the elements, from the sneaky bastards lurking out there … and from himself!

Wilson got into the Volvo and started the engine.

Next stop, Avis Rent-a-Car.

A phone call, a request, his credit card number, all quick and easy … and his next ride would be a new white Cadillac Escalade. Luxury for Gregg's bad leg, if necessary. A cushy ride for a man in considerable physical pain … and a car that rather represented the white hat of a "good guy".

Wilson smiled at that thought for a moment, picturing himself as a modern-day Lone Ranger.

_Hi-Yo Silver!_

His headache revved up a notch, reminding him of his fatigue and his constant worry, and that strange awkward feeling he'd always had when he intruded into the private life of Gregory House.

He put the Volvo in gear and pulled away from the front of the hotel. He stopped at an ATM, inserted his Visa card, and recovered a bundle of cash. He was committed. Hell or high water!

Avis Rent-a-Car was located on Route 206, the main drag of downtown Princeton. Wilson drove there and was pleased to note that the prodigious Cadillac SUV stood waiting and ready for him in front of the rental agency's office building. He pulled the Volvo up beside it, climbed out and opened the hatch.

The motor of the Escalade was already running, pluming exhaust clouds into the early morning air. His telephone call had confirmed its availability, and his credit card had assured him of the three-week rental agreement.

The aging Volvo, meanwhile, would remain at the agency's detail shop for a thorough cleaning, and would be available upon his return … with or without Gregory House in tow.

Wilson transferred his suitcase and other bundles into the cavernous hatch of the big white Caddy, and then buttoned things down and walked over to the office for insurance papers and rental contract.

The woman behind the desk had everything waiting for him in a compact plastic folder. She looked up from the PC in front of her when the door opened and Wilson approached the desk. "Put a 'handicap' placard in there too, please … would you?"

"You would be Dr. James Wilson, correct?" She asked. She reached into a drawer.

"I am," he replied.

She pushed two sheets of paper across the surface of the desk in front of him. "You need to sign both copies, Dr. Wilson," she said, "and let me see your driver's license. Then you're set to go … and here's your placard …" She shoved it into the plastic case.

Wilson dug out his license, scrawled his signature onto both sheets and straightened up again. "Thank you."

The woman nodded, but said nothing further, and returned her attention to the computer in front of her. His credit card had delivered a sizable chunk of money to the coffers of Avis, and she was more than satisfied.

Wilson shrugged to himself and rolled his eyes in a characteristic manner. He spun on his heel and walked out of the office, sliding his license back into his wallet and stashing the wallet into a hip pocket of fresh blue jeans.

The interior of the huge SUV was like a bake oven when he climbed in and closed the door with a solid "chunk". He fastened the safety belt and studied the cockpit for a moment to become acclimated with the unfamiliar setup. There was an On-Star system, he noticed, with navigational capabilities, but if he still didn't know where in hell he was going, he couldn't exactly set it, could he? He wondered what it would do if he just programmed it for: "Due South". Small joke. He didn't laugh.

He took the plastic folder with his receipt, rental contract and other papers and put it in the big glove compartment, then found the heater in the middle of the fancy dashboard and lowered the temperature a few hundred degrees. He was ready. He put his foot on the brake and pulled the transmission lever out of "park" and into "drive-1". The big vehicle bucked beneath him in its eagerness to be off and away.

Wilson looked at his watch. It was 4:30 a.m. Saturday.

He pulled off the Avis lot and entered slow-moving traffic. He was on his way south toward the bridge across the Delaware River into the state of the same name. After

that, he had no idea where the hell he was going to end up … somewhere between here and Raleigh, North Carolina. But he had road maps strewn on the seat beside him … in case …

Wilson's thoughts returned immediately to Gregory House and his foolish adventure through barren landscape in the dead of winter … on a damned crotch-rocket motorcycle with little more than the clothes on his back. House had done some risky things during the time they'd known each other, but never as idiotic as this.

If he'd thought it through once, Wilson had worried through it a thousand times since yesterday at quitting time, when he'd discovered that House had left rehab four-and-a-half hours early, without a word to anyone. Gregg's health, overall, wasn't that bad, if you didn't take into account the damn leg and all the problems it was capable of causing. House's spare, slender body was tuned like a violin: every inch of it … except for the leg … sinewy, powerful, and almost graceful.

But the condition of the leg gave compromise to everything else. It ruled his movements, his decisions, his stamina, his balance, his life and his world. It dictated where he was able to go, and how he could get there. It restricted his choices of lifestyle and his ability to maneuver his body.

The leg narrowed his choices of activity and his ability to remain on his feet for more than a very short span of time. If one thought about it, one discovered very quickly that Gregg House actually lived most of his life and performed most of his work … when he was able to perform it at all … sitting down. And it became readily apparent that even when he was sitting down, the leg was nearly always propped _up…_ or stretched _out!_

Those were the rules of the game as dictated to Gregory House by his crippled right leg. And it would never get better. It would never heal. Never "not hurt". He could not walk very far without the assistance of the cane.

One day down the line, as his body aged, the cane would probably be discarded for crutches. Then a wheelchair.

Wilson shuddered.

He had to get these dumb thoughts out of his head before he became useless to Gregg by worrying himself into a blubbering mess who was no good to anyone.

The open road loomed at last. He was out of town.

Wilson sighed and turned on the satellite radio, luxuriating into the soaring raptures of the Bose sound system.

The Escalade's finely crafted suspension enfolded him like a cloud until he felt he was floating. He set the cruise control and let himself float with it.

His headache began to fade away at last.

Thankfully.

Somewhere to the east, the sun was beginning to light the eastern sky.

_Hi-yo Silver!_

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43


	10. Chapter 10

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Ten -

"Pain Is My Friend"

Coffee!

All he could think of was how badly he needed a cup of coffee.

But there were other things he had to take care of first. He could not leave evidence behind that would point to his presence there. Did that mean he was becoming paranoid?

Probably.

He pulled the dirty jeans and shirt back out of the waste can and tossed them onto the rumpled bed. Both items were too far gone to keep, but surely there was a dumpster around somewhere where he could chuck them. He tossed two empty Mountain Dew cans into the trash, and a wad of napkins left over from the God-awful pizza of last night. His stomach was unsettled and his hands were a little swollen this morning. They hurt, and it was difficult to make fists. It eased a little as he flexed his fingers.

He knew it was from the damn medication. That crap just was not compatible with him, nor he with it. It did nothing to calm the anger in his leg, but it did make him feel half dizzy and slightly headachy.

He had to remind himself again: _One day at a time! I will not take drugs today!_

He sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and stuffed odds and ends of his belongings back into the backpack. Earlier, he had removed the five one hundred dollar bills from his saddlebags and used a cross of duct tape to tape the money inside the gauntlet of his left driving glove. That, combined with the cash he'd already squirreled away in his boot, made him feel a little more secure about carrying such a large amount of money on his person.

Gregory House eased himself into the leather motorcycle jacket and zipped it up. Felt in the right-hand pocket for the twenty he'd folded in there. He pulled the backpack into place and flexed the muscles of his shoulders until it settled into the small of his back.

The keys to the bike and the motel room were in the other pocket, and he looked around the bleak space to make sure he'd left nothing behind that could identify him. He figured the discarded jeans and tee shirt didn't count, but he left them on the bed for now, and got ready to push the bike back outside.

He grasped the cane in his right hand. Levering himself upward, he took his weight fully onto the left side and waited until the other side allowed him to move without grunting in pain. It was a tossup: bite his lip til the blood ran again, or beller at the tops of his lungs.

He refused to beller.

The bike stood sentinel across the floor at the foot of the bed. He'd had to move it in the middle of the night so he could get to the head. Now, it would be nothing, if not difficult, to maneuver it to a point where he could fit it back through the door of the room and into the parking lot.

House stood still for a time, letting the remaining muscle in his thigh get used to taking part of his weight without support. His leg didn't like it and the cramping spiked for a moment until he backed off again. He waited, biting down on his lower lip where there was already a set of teeth marks from last night.

"_Ow! Fuck!"_

It was already nearing 7:00 a.m. and he needed to be on the road again. He felt no urge to hurry. The people at his destination knew he was coming there, and the timeframe was wide open. He'd made it that way on purpose.

Just as he'd bided his time with the articles on Ketamine, and not mentioned them to anyone, neither had he mentioned the JAMA article, mainly because the experimental trials it spoke about were just that: experimental.

A few months back, he'd emailed a dude named Kevin Bernoski, a doctor at an obscure research clinic where the trials were being conducted with the use of nanocites. It had peaked his interest even more when he found out that they were doing preliminary work with chronic pain sufferers and were looking for volunteers.

At the time, he'd been suffering breakthrough pain. The Ketamine injections had failed him after he'd been so sure he was home free. The pain was even worse the second time around, and he was unable to convince anyone how bad it really was. His drug use was becoming an obsession, and he was more and more desperate for some means of relief. Everyone who knew him thought he was an addict.

Including Wilson!

And Wilson didn't really know what to think. Wilson had tried desperately to help him, even as his own desperation accelerated exponentially … and the two of them had nearly blown a leaky friendship that had survived more hits than an old battleship for more than a decade!

And here he was. He had not told Wilson. Again. In his head, he saw Wilson at wit's end, going to pick him up at rehab, only to discover that he'd flown the coop four hours earlier without a word to anyone except the sign-out guy.

In a way, House regretted that. James did not deserve his constant disregard, his anger: again, born of the pain. One of these days he was going to push it until it _did_ break … and then he would have _no_ friends. He wished there were another way.

He thought of the red silk necktie, still rolled up in his backpack, and the night Wilson had given it to him. He remembered the utter confusion on the cherubic face when he'd made that half-assed apology.

"_Cherubic"?_

He had just called Wilson "cherubic". He was losing his marbles!

Gregory House shook his head and straightened his body, coming fully back to the present. His leg had tamed down a little, and his hands felt a little less swollen. The pills he'd swallowed when he'd awakened earlier, were at least taking some of the edge off.

He gathered himself and grasped the handlebars of the Repsol, maneuvering it backward, around the other side of the bed. He'd tossed the cane onto the bed, along with the driving gloves and the helmet, near the old jeans and shirt. He would need both hands for this maneuver.

Using the bike as a crutch again, he wove its length further back, around the corner and through the door of the motel room, out into the parking lot. He was aware of stares of curiosity and incredulity from passersby, although no one made a comment or offered to help. He lowered the kickstand and hobbled painfully back into the room to finish gathering his paraphernalia. When he pulled the door closed behind him and straddled the bike, it was 7:15 a.m., and he still had to turn in the key. He found a dumpster and disposed of the jeans and shirt.

At 7:30 a.m. House sat at a booth in a noisy 24-Hour Coffee Shop, chugging on the biggest cup of fiery coffee they offered, and munched on a Danish so big that it reminded him of a cow flop like the ones he'd seen as a kid on Aunt Sarah's farm. His leg was a misery, and there was no comfortable way to sit, but he lived with it because he had to, and knew it would numb up with cold when he got back on the road again.

He hit Route 95 South awhile later, and the pain settled into his existence the same way he'd settled into the saddle. Cold wind gusts buffeted the shield of his helmet, and the bike humped with the wind shear of bigger vehicles sharing the highway with him. Very soon he would be into Virginia, and it would be, hopefully, a little warmer. The pain kept him alert. It was becoming his friend …

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46


	11. Chapter 11

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Eleven -

"The Day That the Rains Came Down"

The mileposts told him he was in Maryland. Twin ribbons of smooth, white, divided highway affirmed that he was finally on the interstate and headed due south. His raw, angry physical discomfort told him there would be no easy way for him to get through this.

Gregg House lowered his head and hunched his shoulders in an effort to present as little flat body surface as possible to the force of the wind. The heel of his right riding boot was hooked tight on the peg that rode just ahead of the drive wheel. The impaired, deformed muscle of that thigh shrieked with the pain of forced immobility. The only good thing about it was the fact that all sensation from his knee downward had ceased to exist. Even if his foot had come loose and was smoking with friction against the churning concrete, he would never have known.

The temperature was up a little, and he could smell snow in the air.

_Oh great!_

The weather was definitely darkening, and a black storm front was rolling in from the west, just off the point of his right shoulder. Gray clouds roiled like celestial tumbleweeds. They looked like they were attempting to scale the peak of the Cotoctins and ride roughshod down the other side. Just what he needed: the experience of battling fierce wind gusts and driving snow, keeping the bike on the damn road and out of the way of larger vehicles, hell-bent on sweeping him away with sheets of winter whiteout and vicious wind shear. There were no exits for the next fifteen miles or so, and by the time he found shelter, he would look and feel like a freezer-burnt ice cube.

_Lovely!_

The Honda surged ahead into the mouth of the approaching storm front, and House gripped the controls tightly. Both hands closed around the handlebars until his fingers turned to claws and his wrists to stone.

The snowy mixture hit hard just south of Elkridge, and blew in blinding sheets across both lanes of highway. House backed off the throttle and let the powerful machine run at cruising speed, keeping abreast of, but not ahead of other vehicles traveling in the same direction. After a time, he locked into a pattern of similar traffic flow and maintained a steady 50mph, a snail's pace normally, but fast enough in this mess. Gregg hoped that the onslaught was a single storm system, and that it would dissipate as he traveled further south.

Through the gloom he was beginning to see an increasing number of hazy billboards and roadway advertisements, a sure sign of encroaching civilization. He was nearing Baltimore, and he debated whether or not to pull off the road long enough to get dry and stop somewhere for a decent meal. He would need to make up his mind soon. The first exit was coming up in another two miles. Even in lousy weather, the Honda kept eating up the highway.

House took the Towson exit and cruised down the ramp at the northern outskirts of the city. Out here it was a miniature metropolis of nightspots and luxury hotels, a strip mall, lots of eateries of all types. To his right, the Hotel Marriott loomed ghostly through the swirling snowflakes and sleet, aristocratic and dignified. Just beyond it, a Raddison, rising boldly through the wintry curtain. Looking at their manicured grounds, even gripped in the harsh bonds of winter, he could almost see the dollar signs embedded in the accumulating drifts.

He rode past them both, brushing a rivulet of melting snow from the front of his face shield with a soggy gauntlet, and continued to cast about for an appropriate stopping-off place. He was hungry, and his body was clenched with pain. He needed more meds and some time to unwind where it was dry and warm.

He felt as though his sacrum and coccyx were ready to bore right through the skin of his ass cheeks and stab the bike's saddle! In spite of the tiredness, that random thought made him smile.

He found the place he was looking for a half mile further toward town, a mom-and-pop place called "Charlie's". It was a wide, dark, low building with a flat roof; an outside concourse filled with handmade furniture, flea market items and a smattering of antiques. A white electric sign with black lettering invited folks inside for "homemade potpie, fried chicken and biscuits and all the hot coffee you can drink".

House took a deep breath and expelled it through his teeth. He turned into the parking lot, gearing down, leaving spidery, snail-like tracks in new snow on the lee side of the wind, and shut off the Repsol's engine. A few pickup trucks and cars were parked haphazardly, their hoods and windshields already turning white. Slowly he lowered the kickstand and sat there letting his bones unclench for a few minutes before making any attempt to dismount. His right boot slid off the peg and his foot hit the soggy ground with a jolt, causing him to grunt in pain and blink his eyes momentarily.

"Damn!"

When he looked up, his gaze met the questioning stare of a heavyset woman of indeterminate age, leaning against the side of the building with a cigarette in her hand.

House blinked and lifted the helmet off his head, placed it on the right handlebar, and followed that with the heavy gloves, which he placed on the gas tank. The two of them glared at each other for long moments, and then the woman gestured toward him with a smirk on her face. Her eyes were strikingly blue.

"You look a little soggy, friend," she said. "Why don't ya pull the bike under the overhang so it'll stop drippin'. Then come on in and get somethin' hot inside ya. Ya look like ya could use it." She took a final drag from the cigarette and spun it away with a flick of her fingers.

House stared at her ample blue-jeans-and-sweatshirt-clad body, short dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses. He nodded shortly. "In a minute," he said. His leg was not yet ready to move, and he did not care to fall on his ass in front of any woman.

She nodded, still looking him over. "You're hurtin' some, aint'cha?" The words were spoken softly, and she said them with no indication of anything except a mild curiosity.

He looked at her with a sharp, wary expression, at first not realizing he had given anything away. She must have seen the cane he was reaching for on the side of the bike.

"Some," he replied uneasily. He restarted the bike's engine and let its power roll it ahead far enough to move out of the snow. Then he shut it down again. "Thanks."

"Sure." Came the answer. "Take your time comin' in. I'll fix a table over to the right, near the wood stove. You can dry out and warm that leg at the same time. I'll bring a stool out'a the kitchen for ya." She turned briskly and walked inside the little restaurant, leaving Gregory House open-mouthed behind her.

He waited another five minutes until sensation began to return to his extremities. When finally he pulled himself off the bike's broad saddle, his leg was throwing off waves of pain that made him gasp for breath. He found that the amount of weight he had to place on the cane was compromising its usefulness, and he found it difficult to maneuver well enough to stumble inside and make his way to the corner table the woman had indicated.

He lowered himself with effort into a sturdy captain's chair beside the wood stove, and, grimacing, stretched his leg in front of him. His jeans were soaked, the riding boots were soggy, and as the woman had reminded him earlier … so was he.

There were other patrons in the room, and he suddenly found himself under full and intense scrutiny. He was a stranger, and he had the feeling that the rest of them, mostly men, were locals and probably regulars. He gritted his teeth and held his ground, not looking up. They would get tired of watching him eventually. The room had hushed when he'd entered, but after a time the buzz of conversation commenced around him once more, and he began to relax.

From across the room, a flurry of activity caused a stir near the serving counter. House looked up finally. The woman he'd met earlier moved in his direction with a large cup of what he assumed was coffee in one hand, and a folding stool in the other. She placed the coffee at his elbow and opened the small stool near his feet.

"If ya take off them boots," she said in a low voice, "you'll warm up faster, an' maybe the leg there won't feel like you been sittin' in a snow bank."

He looked at her, questioning, and reached down to unzip the riding boots and pull them off. His socks were fairly dry, but his feet were like ice. She was a savvy old girl, he thought. Without a word, he picked up the painful right leg, hefted it onto the stool and stretched it out. The elevated position helped considerably. He sighed and leaned back.

Across from him, the woman watched with a twinkle in her eye and a quirk at the corners of her mouth. "What can I getcha to munch on, mister?"

House met her look and allowed his expression to soften. "Chicken and biscuits sounds good," he said. "I'll try that."

She winked. "Comin' up," she said. "I'm Molly. Drink yer damn coffee!" She turned and started toward the kitchen.

House watched her. "I'm Gregg."

_What the hell … ?_

He put the cup to his lips and took a sip of the incredibly hot black coffee. It was delicious.

Gregory House sat by the wood stove in Charlie's Café for the better part of two hours. It was an easy choice. He munched leisurely on a stack of excellent fried chicken legs and thighs that Molly forked onto his plate, along with biscuits and gravy and a mountain of home-canned corn, slathered with butter that ran down his chin and settled agreeably in his stomach.

Molly kept his coffee cup filled and the wisecracks coming until she finally coaxed a smile out of him. Then she sat down at the table across from him and they fell into a wisecracking snarkfest that had them both grinning and shaking their heads. After a time, the warmth of the room and the warmth of Molly's easy banter relaxed House almost to the point of comfort.

She did not question him further about the problem with his leg that she had obviously noticed, but refused to bug him about. Finally, Gregg's curiosity got the better of him, and he asked her how she'd known …

"Charlie," she said at last, and with obvious difficulty. "My husband. He got kicked by a horse six years ago. It hurt him for awhile, and then it got better, and we forgot about it. A month later, his leg swelled up like a fencepost an' he woke up screamin' in the middle of the night. When we went to the hospital, there was a blood clot above his knee that the doc said blocked the artery and killed the muscle.

"When I saw ya sitting on that motorbike, an' I saw that awful dent in the front of yer leg like that … I knew you had the same thing that Charlie had. Charlie couldn't stand the pain, but he wouldn't let 'em cut the leg off. He had a dent in his leg just like yours, and then one night I heard a gunshot …

"Charlie put a bullet in his brain in the middle of the night. He couldn't take it anymore. I sure hope it ain't like that fer you, Gregg. So, ya see, the reason I did fer you today, is because when I looked at you, I saw Charlie, and I saw how much ya were hurtin' … an' I wanted to help.

"I hope you ain't mad …"

House did not answer. He was not able. Her sudden revelation had stunned him, sucked the breath right out of his chest. He sat with his coffee cup clutched between his hands, eyes downcast, body rigid. This was the first time he had ever heard of someone who'd had an infarction in the same quadriceps muscle as he'd had. Molly's story had moved him more than he could ever admit, and it brought with it a burning sensation that caught in his throat and blurred his vision.

Gregg wondered if he'd been drawn to this place for a reason. Destiny? Retribution? When he finally looked up into her too-bright eyes, it felt as though he were looking into a preview of his own future ….

All he could say was: "I'm sorry. I'm … sorry …"

Shortly after that, he put on his boots, his jacket, gathered his gloves and backpack from the end of the table where they'd been drying beside the stove, and left Charlie's Café without another word. His heart was empty, his mind devoid of cognitive thought.

He hobbled out the front door, mounted the Honda and started the engine. He pulled the helmet over his head and lowered the face shield. He clicked his cane into its place on the bike's frame, put on the driving gloves, geared up and rolled slowly from beneath the overhang in front of the restaurant.

Gregory House was aware of Molly, standing at the front window behind the curtain, watching him retreat slowly up the road toward the highway. He wondered if the telling of her story after all these years had eased her burden, and if it did, he was glad his own situation had helped her to tell it in his presence.

When she cleared his table, she would find the $100 bill he'd slipped beneath his plate.

It was the least he could do.

The _only _thing he could do.

It was still snowing when he swung the Repsol back onto 95 South.

House's cheeks were wet with helpless tears behind the dry shield of his helmet, and he powered up the tight little engine, leaving Towson, Maryland, and the woman with the sad blue eyes, far behind.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

52


	12. Chapter 12

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twelve -

"Whither Thou Goest …"

Wilson wasn't tired anymore.

Somewhere between Princeton and here on the interstate in Maryland, his fatigue had left him, and he'd found a second wind. In an abstract portion of his mind he wondered if he was still as good at guesswork as he used to be. Somewhere also in that devious corner of his brain, there was a goofy, optimistic sense of adventure percolating and expanding and rotating and popping in his synapses … like kids popping bubblegum. It germinated and genuflected and played around with the muscles in his cheeks. After a short time, it poked out from the inside of him and was born as a tentative smile that quirked the corners of his mouth in a display of private, embarrassed foolishness.

Wilson was not a man given to fits of Gilbert and Sullivan. Usually. He tended to be serious, contemplative, analytical and studious. Mostly. But he did have his moments. Ten-plus years of associating with the mercurial and multi-layered personality of Gregory House had done some pretty strange things to his own perceptions of himself, most of them positive. Some of them mind-boggling.

Wilson's hands rested lightly on the mahogany inlay of the Escalade's sculptured steering wheel, and he found himself doing very little steering. The car practically drove itself. It floated silently over the smooth concrete surface of Route 95, cutting a swath through the rainy mixture that left an almost fur-like layer of tiny water droplets on the windshield. The big SUV's heated seat kept his butt warm. The climate-control kept the rest of him toasty, and the extraordinary Bose sound system piped in symphonic music from its satellite radio. Intricate works by Mozart that went well with the silly smile on his face.

James Wilson was finding himself in a reflective mood; just a little worried, just a little apprehensive and just a little obsessive-compulsive.

And a lot curious!

He had a general idea where the crazy fool on the motorcycle was headed, and a certainty of knowing Gregg as well as he did, why he was headed there. What he wasn't entirely sure about was House's state of mind right now, or exactly what it was that had triggered his decision to sneak out like a thief in the night. More accurately, why had House left without telling him, his best friend? What the hell was up with that? House's mouth usually flapped like a duck's ass when he and Wilson were alone together. Even while he was in rehab they'd had plenty of chances for private conversation. But House had never mentioned a thing. In fact, he'd been more than a little taciturn the whole time.

Wilson couldn't help wondering if House had spent the entire time hatching a scheme in that convoluted brain of his. He'd probably known from the onset that the non-narcotic meds he must learn to deal with could not begin to control his leg pain … so he'd set aside part of that formidable mind to seek an alternative. If that was true, House had had good reason to avoid himself and Cuddy and the kids when they were present for meetings.

Wilson's smile faded as he thought about it further. House wasn't a man given to compromise. He knew what he would face in the future if he attempted to remain clean and sober. He had probably balanced the idea of a healthy liver and functioning kidneys against a lifetime of debilitating pain … and found the compromise wanting. If his internal organs failed within another few years, but he was basically able to remain on his feet without resorting to crutches or a wheelchair … then he would accept his own early demise as an equitable trade.

Even the shadow of such a thought at the outside of Wilson's perception gave him cold chills down his spine. It was not good enough. His fear of facing a future without Gregg House … teasing and poking and prodding around in his business … was far beyond his ken. Not having that compelling presence at his side was a thing he did not know if he could ever learn to live without …

Wilson knew only too well how helpless he was when it came to the alleviation of House's pain. He was as powerless over that as Gregg was over the drugs. ("Cunning, baffling and powerful," so said the recovering addicts.) His pain was permanent. It was there to stay, tolerable or not. Gregg would never be "well", and people as a rule, did not understand that. They expected to hear the words "getting better" … which would never come.

It had always been an ache in Wilson's soul to know he could not run interference for his friend everywhere he went. He knew Gregg did not want or expect his hovering, or his protection. Nevertheless, he'd always found himself unable to control the instinct to be there when he was needed … even when he was not needed. It was who he was.

For the most part, House ignored his mothering, sarcastically calling him: "The Secret Service Guy in the Black Helicopter". Wilson figured that that description was about as close as any to the way he felt about it. The way they both felt about it … for widely divergent reasons.

Wilson sighed and returned his focus to the road once more. He'd been noodling around in another world; letting his speculative thoughts float off in fantasy imaginings of tiny Nano robots and miraculous cures for intractable pain.

But Cinderella worlds were of no use to the real one, and miracle cures were for chick flicks and children's fantasies. There was no happily-ever-aftering except in Camelot, and no miracles for Gregory House that didn't have their roots in fantasy, and exact a very high price … from both of them.

He waited until he was a little south of Baltimore before pulling off the road to refill the Escalade's gas tank. He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly noon. He stood with the handle of the gas pump in his hand, staring blankly at the dollar signs flying by in a blur on the readout, mentally calculating how far behind House he might be, and at what location in the state the damned suicide machine was roaring along at that very moment …

When the pump finally shut off, he hung up the hose and stared at the total purchase with an open jaw. What a price to pay for luxury! The damned SUV had an unlimited capacity and a drinking problem that matched and surpassed, by comparison, that of any alcoholic Wilson had ever met.

He fished in his jeans pocket for his wallet, and walked with his head down through the frenzy of swirling flakes that were quickly escalating into full-fledged snow. He paid for the gas, along with a fistful of candy bars, an industrial-strength Pepsi, and two chicken salad sandwiches, then returned to the Escalade and folded himself back into the driver's seat.

Wilson pulled away from the gas pumps and parked on the other side of the lot to eat his sandwiches and drink the soda. He dumped the candy bars onto the passenger seat on top of the maps and his laptop in its leather case. As he did so, he contemplated composing an email to Cuddy, letting her know his whereabouts and his progress … or his lack thereof. Then he thought better of it. When he did email Cuddy, finally, it would be to let her know that he was still on the trail, but he could not bring himself to reveal any clue as to House's location; not after his friend had gone to such lengths to steal away unseen.

Wilson sighed and crumpled the sandwich wrappers in his fist. The Escalade's defroster and wipers quickly cleared the fog from the inside windshield and the mushy accumulation of snow from the outside. He was warm again and partially dried out from chasing through the swirl of heavy wet flakes. He pulled the shift lever into "drive" and left the parking lot. Quickly, he retraced his path back to the ramp leading to the interstate and rejoined southbound traffic. He grabbed a Fifth Avenue bar and ripped off the wrapper with his teeth. He munched on it absently while his thoughts returned to Gregory House like thumbtacks to a magnet …

He'd promised himself not to worry. House was a big boy, and could take care of himself. But he was also fresh out of rehab, physically weak, probably in a prodigious amount of pain and looking at the world through a foggy red haze. Anyone in that condition should not be on the highway, let alone unaccompanied, on a motorcycle, and in the snow!

Wilson frowned.

The car was still warm, cocooned around him in luxurious comfort. The satellite radio was still playing Mozart, with a little bit of Chopin thrown in, and he was still in pursuit of his foolish friend. But the adventurous mood in which he'd found himself earlier had departed like smoke on the wind. The burden of fatigue was settling back again between his shoulders, and he took note of a sympathetic twinge of pain near his right knee. He took his foot off the gas pedal and set the cruise control. He stretched his leg out and the ache receded. He was reminded of a man suffering labor pains along with his wife, and he rolled his eyes at the irony.

Gregory House, Wilson knew, could not be having an easy time of it. Gregg's colossal inborn stubbornness would, of course, keep him focused as keenly as possible on his mission. But the old cliché about the "spirit being willing, but the flesh being weak," overrode his insistence to himself that House was fully in charge of his own destiny.

_Yeah … right!_

Wilson glanced at his watch again. A little after 1:00 p.m. It was snowing more heavily now, with renewed enthusiasm. The sky to the east was black as coal, but the sun was trying to break through further south.

Maybe, with a little luck, House would be riding out of the storm and into the sun. Maybe by this evening he would have sense enough to get off the damn road and take himself in somewhere where it was warm and dry. Maybe he would do all these things that he needed to do in order to safeguard his unpredictable health.

In an ideal world, Gregory House would have the common sense to get everything right and look out for his own well being. Plus put a decent meal in his stomach and get a decent night's sleep.

"In an ideal world!" Even the words, spoken aloud, sounded false to his ears …

Wilson shook his head a tad and suppressed another frown.

_Get real, Wilson!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

55


	13. Chapter 13

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirteen -

"To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"

He crossed the line into Virginia at 7:30 in the evening.

His body trembled with fatigue, and his head pounded with a fury that pulled a haze across his vision and threatened to cause him to lose control of the bike. His upper body was dry beneath the thick leather of his jacket, and his head and neck were protected by the helmet and its face shield. But his jeans clung wetly to the skin of his legs and thighs. Both limbs were numb from the wind and the cold. His feet had lost all sensation long ago, and his hands kept sliding away from their grip on the handlebars.

Gregory House needed to locate shelter soon, or he would find himself off the road and in a ditch. He'd become weary and dazed on the endless expanse of Route 95, and so had made the transition to a winding rural legislative route that snaked its way in a generally southern direction, below the town of Woodbridge. In this area the roadbed was less maintained and riddled with potholes. There were also fewer vehicles to contend with, and the bike was making virgin tracks in the softly falling snow. Along here he could take his time and look for some out-of-the-way place to hole up for the night.

Sadly, his mind returned to Molly, back at "Charlie's Place", and her no-nonsense but touching tale of a husband who had succumbed to the pain of his leg infarction … and the muscle death and the nerve damage.

Incredible coincidence?

Gregg thought about the woman's stricken eyes as she'd looked at him in astonished understanding, probably seeing the pain in his own eyes, just as she'd seen it before, closer to home, six years ago.

He'd felt so bereft in her presence. He'd had nothing to offer of himself, no solace to warm her memories. The savings account in his heart had gone bankrupt and barren following his terrible anger at the downward spiral of his own life. His empathic responses and his ability to offer them were sadly lacking for Molly. His sympathies for others who found themselves in a similar situation had been ground down to the bone. He had nothing left to share from the emptiness of a soul scraped clean by unrelenting pain and years of self-inflicted isolation.

He regretted running out on her, but if he had not done so, he might have screamed at the irony, and he knew she would not understand about that. He couldn't do such a thing to someone who had witnessed too much of it already!

He stopped a few miles south of Woodbridge, at a little hole-in-the-wall store and gas station in the middle of nowhere. He filled the tank and grabbed a couple of munchies he didn't have to dig in his pack for. And another cup of steaming coffee, loaded with cream and sugar.

Painfully, he walked around to stretch his weary bones, and then visited the men's room. The little store was isolated, no accommodations there. In the full darkness of late evening, he headed south once more. The bike's headlights poked twin beams through the falling snow, and again he began to keep his eyes peeled for sanctuary.

The road was narrower and curvier now, and its pockmarked surface forced a small vibration upward through the front fork that hurt his leg. When he finally found himself a place to stop and got the leg warmed up, there would be no end to the misery it would cause.

He was passing through a wild area of overgrown fields and wilted cornstalks. There were houses, widely scattered along the countryside, standing out above the horizon in stark silhouette, most of them back and away from the road with only their roofs visible, and pale chimney smoke curling lazily into the air.

Although the Virginia weather was a few degrees warmer than New Jersey, it was still midwinter. Along this stretch of cold, lonely isolation, there was no such thing as "comfortable". He hunched his shoulders and worked his head slowly from side to side with the effort of combating the annoying vibration of the motorcycle. The cold drizzle of snow-turning-to-sleet tapered to a thin mist that brittled his bones.

As he pressed on doggedly, trying to keep himself warm and distracted from his failings, a second intruding presence knocked persistently on his mental barriers. It pushed away the images of Molly, replacing her haunted eyes with something more tangible, more constant. His guarded thoughts finally gave way to the brown eyes that replaced the blue; familiar eyes, fading in and out of his consciousness, insinuating their way into his head and filling him with renewed confusion and anger.

In spite of himself, he welcomed the intrusion, blurring the rough terrain that passed by in the bike's headlights on both sides of him. The insistent images branded themselves across every tree trunk, every bush, every rock, every stump, and every depression in the saturated earth. Every gnarl and knot on every tree he passed, framed by the falling snow, morphed into dark eyes filled with loss and confusion, and haunted with worry, guilt and apprehension.

Wilson!

Even in disjointed thoughts the protective "black helicopter" hovered above, and concerned eyes peered down upon him …

_Damn you! You worm your way into my head like an army of pissants marching after a trail of sugar!_

There were not enough miles between him and the end of the universe to get Wilson out of his thoughts, out of his senses, or out of his heart! Like an elephant in the middle of his living room: not enough distractions existed in the world to shuck the image of this man in his mind. The more he tried _not_ to think about him … Wilson … like the damned elephant … only grew larger.

House did not want to smile … but he did.

Around him now, the dark landscape was changing in a subtle manner. Overgrown fields and scraggly underbrush gave way to heavier vegetation. Pine and fir and other conifers were springing into view more and more as he continued onward, emerging larger and taller and thicker. Their heavy limbs were weighted down by snow and ice that sparkled like diamonds everywhere the Repsol's twin beams pointed. After another half mile, he found himself entering a natural tunnel beneath a woven, living canopy that closed off the sky from view, and the wintry mix from pelting down hollowly on his helmet.

House slowed the bike. It was as though he'd suddenly wandered through a space-time continuum into a parallel universe. The Honda's headlights were now showing dry pavement. The road was enclosed on both sides by heavy stands of pine trees that hovered like sentinel giants over layers and layers of packed, _dry_, brown pine needles.

He came upon a break in the thicket, a place where one of the tallest trees had been struck by lightning or some other natural disaster. The broken trunk formed an entryway off the road and into the soft forest floor beyond. He geared the bike down until he could balance its weight with his left leg, and walked it slowly between trees and around rock formations and stands of laurel and rhododendron. The pine-needled earth remained dry and silent, and he guided the Repsol slowly until he could no longer see anything that might represent the edge of the road or the downed tree that had invited him inside.

House let the machine rest at idle, turning the front fork both ways to direct the lights inward. To his right stood an outcropping of rock large enough to afford protection from the elements in case snow managed to penetrate the canopy. Quickly he untied the heavy-duty sleeping bag from behind the saddle and heaved it down beside the muddy drive wheel.

Next, he rummaged around in the saddlebag until his fingers closed around the tiny, cheap bar-b-que grill on folding wire legs; the kind sold in convenience stores for one-time use. He let it drop on the soft bed of pine needles beside the sleeping bag.

Finally, he removed his helmet and gloves and pulled the backpack from his shoulders. Inside the backpack was a large, square flashlight with a wide beam and a wide base.

He flipped it on and leaned down to set it carefully on the surface of the little grille. Its beam pointed skyward, illuminating the lowest boughs of the pine trees, casting a dim glow around a narrow area of the silent woods.

House sighed with exhaustion and shut down the engine of the bike, quickly kicked down the kickstand. The sudden, complete cessation of sound from the forest caused a roar in his ears that was, for a moment, eerily distracting. All that was left was the rush of wind through the boughs.

Around him, the woods were inky black, except for the tiny ring of light from the flashlight. He squinted until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

Carefully, he slid his bad leg across the bike's saddle and grasped the pant leg with the fingers of his right hand, lowering the senseless limb gradually to the ground. It was like lead. He was not in the least surprised to find that it would not support his weight, or move at his command. It rested useless, stiff as a flagpole; heel dug sideways into the pine needles, refusing to do anything but lean there.

Gregg propped himself on both hands for a moment, until he could feel the slow return of sensation that gradually awakened his physical body and traveled upward like mercury through a thermometer. The pain began to spike with it. He leaned across the saddle of the bike and retrieved his cane from its niche, half surprised to feel a layer of mud on its outside surface. He made a disgusted face and circled his fingers around it to scrape off the mud, then flicked his fingers outward and wiped the rest on his pants. His hands came away clean because the jeans were soaked. So far he was batting a thousand!

In the middle the night, in the middle of a stand of pine trees in "God-Knows-Where", Virginia, Gregory House, M. D., chief diagnostician at a prestigious New Jersey hospital, rested his weary bones around a makeshift campfire like a true and investitured knight of the open road.

House had removed his wet jeans, boots and socks. His right foot ached dully. The sleeping bag was positioned just under the edge of rock to his right. He was covered to his neck with the warmth of the down-filled material, and cocooned by the rest of it behind his back. All he had to do to experience its full benefit was zip it up. The little charcoal grille perked merrily at his left elbow, and right above it, hanging from the handlebars of the Repsol, his jeans, socks and boots were drying in the rise of its heat. The red coals cast a crimson glow across the face of the rock, and across the exhausted face of the man.

House had taken a dose and a half of the poor substitute for medication, and sat with his right hand massaging the painful area around his surgical scar and staring pinch-faced into the trees.

More than once during the past twenty-four hours he had wondered whether this long, torturous journey would be worth it. What had seemed like such a promising idea when he'd first read about it months ago, now just seemed like one more pipe dream and one more wild goose chase.

The overriding anger he'd felt with being confined to rehab against his will had tamed a little since his release. His obstinate sense of pride at seeing it through to its conclusion, mainly to spite Wilson and Cuddy and Tritter for forcing the decision upon him and conspiring to humiliate him, was losing its fascination.

He had known letdown before. When he was a kid, his father had let him down with stiff military rigidity, and his mother had let him down by continuing to side with his father. His friends had let him down all his life by disappearing into thin air every time the Marines transferred his father to a new base … and Gregg to a new school where he would have to start all over again.

Schools and colleges had let him down by not recognizing his genius and the restless mind that surged like an angry sea, and for not offering him a challenge big enough to fit his massive brain and his massive ego. He'd gotten himself into trouble and found that there was no one he could trust who recognized his potential … or his desperate need to _know!_ To accumulate information! That was when he'd finally learned to trust no one.

Until Wilson came along.

No matter what he did … no matter what shenanigans he pulled … he could never shake the unflappable Wilson, or chase him off. Wilson would wait quietly and let him rant and rave. Wilson would sit with his chin propped on his palms and roll his eyes and let him bitch and scream and carry on like a madman to make some obscure point or other. Then Wilson would look up at him and ask, in a detached voice, whether he was finished fanning the air with his flapping tongue …

Wilson accepted him for the mad-scientist he was, and never tried to change him over to a different point of view. Wilson generously offered him half of everything he owned, whether it be food, rides downtown in his dilapidated car, clothing, money, girls …

Wilson was always there, and Wilson celebrated the good times with him, and listened to his tales of woe when he didn't get his own way.

Wilson was just … Wilson.

And House took him for granted, never once realizing how much Wilson actually meant to him.

Wilson hadn't turned him in to Tritter to hurt him. He'd turned him in to help him.

For a man with the mind of an Einstein … a Sagan … a Hawking … Gregory House knew he sometimes had the common sense of a house fly. The realization was galling!

And that nagging portrait that hung on the walls at the back of his mind: Wilson. Always Wilson. Caring, responsible, honest-to-a-fault, courageous, loving, "cherubic" Wilson!

Damn him! 

House's leg was a lump of misery. Even after the rest of him had warmed up; after he had eaten a pair of squashed (but grilled!) ham sandwiches, a squashed bag of chips, a squashed Snickers bar and a warm can of Mountain Dew, the leg radiated pain up and down his body, from the middle of his back to the heel of his foot, and the fucking meds hadn't touched it. His hand was cramping from rubbing at the wasted muscle.

What would he find when at last he arrived in Raleigh, North Carolina and met with the doctor with the breakthrough theories about nanocites and chronic pain? What then? He would willingly lend himself as guinea pig, just on the outside chance that the technology would work for him … as the Ketamine … last year … had not …

Finally he fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep as the little fire in the bar-b-que guttered and went out. He burrowed deep into the warm sleeping bag and followed his restless mind as it rose into dreams …

He was sitting on a bench near the bank of The River. He was watching joggers pounding by on the nature trails, and he was imagining the sun glittering on the water and a cool breeze lifting the leaves of the trees. Ducks and geese glided happily in the crystal clear water, while he remained shackled to a cement bench and a cane by a useless leg that dictated his every movement. Even whether or not he was strong enough, on any given day, to walk down here by The River and watch the joggers and the trees and the geese and the water … and imagine …

And there sat Wilson. Not too close. Not too far. Saying nothing. Expecting nothing. Watching the joggers and the water … and all the rest … at his side. Imagining …

Gregory House sighed in his sleep … until a sudden pain in his leg made him hitch over sharply to the left. Just above him stood a smiling, not-quite-solid image holding a warm blanket in his hands … James Wilson. Calm. Caring. Purposeful. Dream-Wilson lifted the blanket, bent over, placed it gently across Gregory House's trembling shoulders and then withdrew without a sound.

The image drifted slowly off on the last whiff of charcoal smoke from the dying fire. Beneath the warmth, sleeping-House watched, a convulsive sigh forming in his throat as Wilson's image faded away again, into the cold night air.

…Don't go … 

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61


	14. Chapter 14

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Fourteen -

"Hide and Seek"

James Wilson sat at a roadside rest on Route 95 a few miles south of the state line between Maryland and Virginia.

He'd switched off the SUV's engine a few hours before, climbed into the back seat and covered himself with one of the old blankets he'd thrown in there. He snuggled down with the intention of grabbing what sleep he could, but the biting cold had roused him, shivering, not much later. The foggy cloud of his breath in the cold air was enough motivation for him to scramble back over into the front seat and get the car running again.

The Escalade was covered with a light dusting of snow that had given him a very effective privacy curtain while he napped. It was cold enough in there now though, to cause his teeth to chatter like castanets, and he needed to be on his way again as soon as possible.

Ten minutes later, Wilson sat hunched behind the steering wheel allowing his bones to thaw out. Spread before him was a big roadmap of the eastern seaboard. He stared at it contemplatively as he munched on another Fifth Avenue candy bar, mulling over in his mind what road he might be on right now if he were Gregory House …

"WWHD?"

He'd used that obscure reference once before in front of his best friend. He'd assumed at the time that House wouldn't know what it meant, taking into consideration Gregg's ingrained irreverence and lack of religious faith. But much to his surprise, House had thrown back his head in a peal of sarcastic laughter and thanked Wilson for comparing him to Jesus Christ "… for whatever goddamn reason, even if I don't cook much and would therefore be pretty much out of the competition as far as gourmet loaves and fishes are concerned …"

Wilson let his chin fall to his chest, concealing his spreading smile from whatever Divine Entity might be watching at the moment. He could never get ahead of House; no matter how hard he tried. Parallel him sometimes, yes, but never surpass.

He sighed and went back to studying the roadmap, still with a slight upturn at one corner of his mouth; still wracking his brain with another attempt at guesswork. Would House stay on Route 95 until he made the switch to 85 into Raleigh? Or would he hunt some isolated country road in order to bypass traffic? House might wish to keep from being pummeled around on the highway by truck traffic. Or avoid a swarm of inattentive idiots who cared little about motorcyclists and afforded them no courtesy …

Who knew for sure what that man might be thinking at any given moment?

Wilson's fingers traced the thin lines of two or three secondary roads that wound in a southerly direction. Did any of them look like they might afford a logical choice to a crippled halfwit on a motorcycle? Wilson figured that if he closed his eyes, pointed a finger and chanted: "eeny-meeny-miney-moe …" one chance was just as good as any in guessing where his nimble-minded friend might be cruising at this very moment.

After a time, Wilson determined that only one of these little pot-holed wonders actually connected with Route 85 south. The map showed a fork in the road about twenty miles north of the city where a patch of broken lines indicated a construction area. Probably long completed since the map had been published, this new road tied the legislative route back into the main highway. Somewhere in that vicinity a Honda Repsol with a blemish on its right side … and its rider, also with a blemish on his right side … cruised along on its journey to who-the-hell-knew-what …

The defroster of the Escalade had melted the snow from the windshield, and its wipers, in turn, cleared the resulting rivulets of water. James Wilson folded the map and tossed it back onto the passenger seat. He moved the shifter into "drive" and pulled back onto the highway. For the first time since he'd begun this little hide-n-seek adventure, he had an idea where he was going, and probably what he would find when at last he caught up to the screwball on the bike.

Wilson:

The car is warm around me, but I have this feeling deep in my bones that something cold and brittle is waiting down the line. For a change I don't have any morbid visions of House lying broken and bloody by the side of the road. I'm not picturing the Honda lying smashed nearby while fire trucks and ambulances with red lights flashing, cordon off the scene of a fatal accident. But something "funny" keeps churning in my stomach, and it has nothing to do with the three candy bars I just ate …

There is a foreboding that surrounds me concerning the goal that House is aiming for. His desperation is a pain in my heart. He still thinks I betrayed him by making a deal with Tritter … even though my intentions were honorable. I think he believes me about that now, but it may take some time and patience on my part to convince him to trust me again.

His decision _not_ to tell me about this last-ditch effort to eliminate some of his pain may be about as close as he ever gets to sparing me from seeing his personal agonies.

I guess he didn't stop to think that by keeping all this to himself, it only compounds the pain for both of us: for me, by escalating the worry I already have for him … and for himself, by ignoring my concerns about the things that make him hurt … because he's always known of my need to be needed.

I have no business sneaking around behind his back … hunting him down as though he's a common criminal … or continuing my habit of trying to cover his back in case he gets himself into a jam, as he's been known to do in the past. It's none of my damn business either … where he goes or what he does or who he sees.

_But_ … I can't help myself! In admitting that, I fully recognize the folly of making the statement. House always tells me: "… everything after _"but"_ is _bullshit! _"

So here I am … probably about an hour or two behind him, heading into the heart of Virginia on some winding country road, knowing he has no cell phone to call for help if he gets in trouble. No way to find his way to safety if the bike conks out. And no one looking for him or worrying about him except me … knowing he's abusing the hell out of the leg that barely holds him up in the first place …

And I'm thinking of all the dangerous consequences I'm letting myself in for by trying to be his Guardian Angel.

I don't know why I keep torturing myself about this stuff. I've been over this, and over it and over it until it's beginning to get as monotonous as another plate of "turkey surprise" a week after Thanksgiving. I can't let it alone. I'm like a kid worrying at a loose tooth, or picking at a hangnail until it's bloody and he keeps wiping it on his pants.

That's House. Sometimes he's a stale sandwich, sometimes a loose tooth … and sometimes a bloody hangnail. Sometimes he's a combination of all three. But he's my best friend! I've sacrificed more than a few friends in his favor over the years, and never regretted it. Don't ask me why. I don't know now … any more than I knew then. But he possesses something; some spark that no one else has. Some quality that keeps drawing me in. He is like a smart eight-year-old without a lick of common sense.

Sometimes he seems so helpless, so utterly without guile when he's scheming to chisel me out of five grand of my hard-earned money. He's as endearing as a little kid making with the innocent blue eyes and stealing the lunch right off my plate.

Gregory House is a human contradiction. On one of his good days, drawn up to his full, impressive height, he is powerful, dignified, forbidding; the master of all he surveys. On a bad day he is hunched and vulnerable, angry and isolated, battling his pain alone and daring anyone to come within ten feet of him.

Even when he's at his worst, his most snappish; the times when he hurts the worst and cannot find the words to ask for help, I can tell when he is seeking me out. I can tell by the way he holds his body, and the way he tries to hide the grimace on his face, and the gut wrenching hurt in those eyes. Those are the times he will allow me … and only me … to be around him.

That's why I'm here; sneaking around behind his back and tracking him the way Sherlock Holmes tracks his quarry. I'm like the father who follows a wayward child in the effort to keep that child from getting hurt any more than he has already been hurt …

And I'm here because I love him.

That'll never change.

I was right.

I'm on the right road now. I can feel it. I can feel _him_ … out there somewhere in front of me, not that far ahead anymore. I found the new section of highway and a series of turnoffs just a little south of a town called Woodbridge. I pulled off near the traffic light there and looked at the map again. He's on this road. I know it. All I have to do is keep going, and sooner or later he'll look in his rear view mirror and see this big white SUV creeping up behind him.

That's the best-case scenario. The other possibility is that I'm so full of baloney that it sticks out my ears … and I've never been so wrong about anything in my whole life. But I don't think so!

The snow has stopped now, and the wind has died down to almost nothing. I can see the sky beginning to lighten out there over my left shoulder, and I'm thinking it has to be close to six in the morning. I'm not tired anymore. I'm too close to tracking him down, too close to putting my mind to rest … that he's all right … not half frozen to death or sick or hurt. I've got to know.

So far, this has been a mind-numbing trip. I may have had about two hours' sleep in the last twenty-four, but I'm too keyed up to think about stopping now. I have to stay on this road and see where it leads, and what might be waiting for him at its end. I still have that "funny" feeling deep in my gut … like all this will be for nothing, and House will end up with more pain and more disappointment for his efforts.

The other side of the coin, of course, is the possibility that this nanotechnology will provide the miracle he needs, and he will be pain-free for the first time in almost eight years.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. I think my biggest fear is that he will want to fly free as soon as he possibly can … and I will be left to worry. He will have a newfound sense of giddy irresponsibility that frightens me to death, and even though those little metallic bugs can't replace the missing muscle in his leg, and he will still need the cane for stability, I'm afraid he will take chances that could lead him into deep and dangerous waters.

And I still wonder if he didn't plant that damn cell phone in his sock drawer on purpose … lure me after him on a wild goose chase of his own. With him, anything is possible, and I know the extent to which his mind works when he thinks he has the better of somebody.

That Machiavellian deviousness is always there begging to get the higher ground. Am I playing into his hands? Or will he blow his top when he sees me, and tell me to get out of his life and go straight to hell?

I'm not sure if I have what it takes … to take that chance …

But here I am!

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66


	15. Chapter 15

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Fifteen -

"Goin' to Town"

Daylight.

Something unexpected filtered through the trees, extending from heaven in slender glassy rods of light. Needling their way boldly between thick branches and happily spearing the ground, thousands of tiny sunbeams danced among the pine needles, making random splotches of brilliance on the forest floor.

One of them landed on Gregory House's closed eyelid and burned into it like a hot red ember. He yelped and then squirmed instinctively out of the way before it fried his retina right through the delicate skin. Gregg shifted further to the right against the face of the sheltering rock, pawed groggily at the side of his face, and slowly squinted upward.

The sun was shining!

He had not seen the sun for so long that he'd almost forgotten it was still up there. Winter in New Jersey often caused the sun to hide behind layers of thick black clouds, sometimes for weeks on end, denying the bleak landscape any glimpse of its face. Six weeks in rehab while sulking behind windows of opaqued glass encrusted with ice and snow did not help. His constant pain and no Vicodin to alleviate it had been a very poor way to try to view the world in any other capacity than unending darkness.

House did not really want to be conscious right now, but he'd been jolted rudely out of a peaceful slumber that he could hardly believe he'd been experiencing. Maybe he should sleep in a pine forest more often! It had been a long time since the buzz in his leg had allowed him so much uninterrupted sleep. He'd been more exhausted than he'd thought. Instinctively, he reached his hand down there to check the scar; suddenly afraid his leg might have lost sensation … not a good thing.

His fingertips touched the edge of the deep depression gingerly, and that was a mistake. The instant electrical impulse that charged through his thigh let him know that the leg was indeed not senseless, but merely lying in wait. He swore in chagrin when the ache resumed as soon as his searching fingers brushed across the area of the damaged nerves. His faithful companion was demanding breakfast, and his interval of peaceful rest was over.

House unzipped the sleeping bag halfway, hating to move out of its cocooning warmth and face the cold light of even this bright day. He reached to his backpack and the three pill containers, extracting the morning dose one vial at a time and swallowing the tablets dry. And so it went.

Still sitting there waiting for some of the painful buzz to ease a little, he reached to the handlebars of the Repsol to check on the status of the wet clothing he'd removed last night. The socks, fortunately, were dry. His jeans were very nearly so, though still damp at the bottom hems. Better than he'd expected. His cane leaned against the bike's front fork within easy reach, and he grasped it tightly before making an effort to get to his feet.

Leaning on the cane in his left hand, and the face of the rock on the right, he eased the rest of the way out of the sleeping bag and levered his body slowly upright. It was freakin' cold out there!

As usual the leg was stiff and unresponsive, but he had to get it limbered up and moving. He needed to clean up his mess, gather his trash and get the hell out of here. With this break in the weather, he should be able to make it to Raleigh sometime today.

He stood, leaning heavily on the rock, biting at his lip and giving his abused muscles a chance to loosen. He had to get dressed, get into the boots, pack up and get going. A glance at his watch told him it was a little after 6:00 a.m. He was hungry, and he needed the biggest cup of coffee the law would allow. Soon!

00000000

Jim Wilson flipped on his turn signal, pulled over to the side of the road as a courtesy to nonexistent traffic, and checked his map again after he was well past the turnoffs that led over to Danville. The switch to Route 85 wasn't all that far ahead, and if he hurried, it might be possible to catch up to the motorcycle before House made the transition back to the interstate. There was a small town about forty miles straight ahead.

Small? It was a pinpoint on the map.

Looking closer at the tangled road configurations, he ran a finger along some of the possible routes once more and wondered where the hell House might have spent the night along this isolated stretch of no man's land. In the open, for God's sake? Or had he doggedly persisted in continuing along this crappy back road with its twists and turns and potholes and washed-out ruts and …

_For God's sake, Wilson, stop this! House is a big boy. He can take care of himself._

Oh-Ho! … yeah, right …he's proved that fact so damn often, hasn't he? He's a very "big" six-year-old …eminently capable of breaking his fool neck out here somewhere …

In spite of himself, James Wilson's imagination was once again inducing self-torturing visions involving fire trucks and police cars and ambulances with red lights revolving, cordoning off the scene of a fatal accident involving some idiot on a motorcycle out here in the middle of nowhere …

He shook himself mentally. Thought something angrily to himself in Hebrew.

Even when alone and half exasperated with himself, Wilson had an insane tendency to roll his eyes in accordance with a very old habit. He did so now, and ended up staring hard at his half-reflection in the rear view mirror. The worried eyes that stared back gave him enough of a reprieve that he could take a deep breath and gather himself to shake off the nonsense. When he looked back again, he discovered that he'd lifted his right hand to the tense muscles at the back of his neck. House's antics caused him to do that a lot too, even without thinking. Consciously he returned his hand to the steering wheel.

God! What were the lengths to which he would go for this guy? He hadn't discovered his limits yet. Were there limits where House was concerned?

He pulled the Escalade's gearshift out of "park", turned on the left turn signal, all very proper, and pulled back onto the muddy road. Up ahead he could see the fringes of a stand of what looked like old growth spruce trees and maybe some hemlocks and Virginia pines. Some of them were very tall, and it seemed almost as though the road had been cut right through the middle of them.

The immediate change in the consistency of the roadbed was astounding. Mud turned to dry road in a heartbeat, as though there had been no snow, no bitter cold, no wind … no winter there at all. Wilson felt as though he had entered the gateway to another world. He took his foot off the gas and rubbernecked upward through the SUV's spattered windshield, marveling at the tight canopy of interwoven branches and the mottled pinpoints of bright sunlight that filtered through them. He could see dust motes reflecting the sun's rays like hundreds of tiny Tinkerbelles dancing through Never Never Land and hovering like will o'the wisps in the electrified air.

He drove on, slowly, marveling at nature's power. Twice he noticed downed trees, one on each side of the road, blown over or fallen over; their broken backs graceful, even in death. He pictured them in his mind as gallant sentries bowing beside a gateway, inviting weary travelers into the sanctuary of their depths …

Wilson's breath hitched.

His heart beat a little faster as he braked with a lurch … hard … at the right side of the road where the second fallen tree lay over with part of its splintered trunk still pointing skyward. Scarcely breathing, he leaned far across the front seat of the SUV and lowered the window on the passenger side.

There it was.

Very faintly, almost unnoticeable unless closely observed, two disturbances in the dead pine needles beneath the tree's broken back, seized his immediate attention. The color contrast between layers of ground cover and the tiny ruts they produced, announced the passage of … something … in and out of the thicket.

James Wilson closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Perhaps in grateful supplication …

Divine intervention? Again? Wow! As long as You're offering … I'm taking.

After another half mile of tented pines, the Escalade emerged from nature's cathedral into bright sunlight.

Wilson didn't notice. There was a small town a short distance ahead, and he was a little choked up … and grinning like the cat that got the canary!

00000000

Gregg House's weakness was becoming a danger. He was very aware of it, both to himself and to anyone who happened to be sharing the road with him at any given moment. He was grateful for the sunlight and the higher temperatures, although it did nothing to provide comfort or warmth for his damaged leg. There was nothing that could help that as long as he was on the road.

His vision wandered in and out of focus, and his hands were cramped and painful. The right riding boot was filled to capacity with his swollen foot, and threatening to overflow. He needed this journey to be over. Soon.

He came upon the little town all of a sudden. It wasn't there. Then … Bingo! It was.

"Chase City", said the sign, and he bit back a rueful grunt of irony. He guessed it was allowed to call itself a town because it had an intersection with stop signs on two corners. There were houses along both sides of the street. Old ones. Windows with four panes each … and wooden sashes with rippled glass in which he could see his own image bobbing like a cork in the water as he rode past. Maybe twenty buildings in all. And a gas station. And a feed store. And a drug store! Sweet Jesus … he wanted to rob it blind of all its Vicodin!

And …

Thank you, Higher Power!

A diner!

It was the very first "trolley" diner he had seen in twenty-five years. Maybe longer. He pulled into the empty gravel parking lot, and stared. His "ram-a-lam-a-ding-dong" mind was immediately distracted, and he sat still on the idling Repsol, intrigued by the amazing display of 1950's pop culture, come hauntingly alive before his eyes.

The little restaurant had once been an actual trolley car, vintage 1920's to '40's. When trolleys went the way of the buffalo, someone had bought it, placed it on a foundation, built a kitchen area at the back, built cement steps adorned with "period" wrought iron railings, and opened her up for business.

House smiled a real smile as he continued to look the place over. He was willing to bet that the inside had tall chrome stools anchored to the floor in front of a chrome bar with a white Formica top. He also bet there was a tall clear plastic pie case at one end of that bar, loaded with goodies for a sweet tooth. There would be one of the biggest coffee makers in North America behind that bar, complete with two glass pots, and his nose wrinkled with aroma remembrance.

There would be booths along the window wall, covered in red and white Naugahyde, and every other booth would have a chrome coat rack bolted in place on the black and white linoleum floor. Each table would have a plastic see-thru console where popular songs could be chosen by pressing red plastic keys aligned along the bottom, and patrons could listen to oldies music while they ate their meals.

Strong, horseshoe-floating brimstone-melting coffee would be served in wrist-crippling white Syracuse China mugs. Dinner, of course, would arrive piping hot, in traditional, chipped, many-times-washed, Blue Willow dinnerware that House had long maintained came over on Noah's Ark. (You didn't have to be religious to have a "thing" for Noah's Ark!)

He shut off the bike's engine. It was running a little hot, and could use a rest as much as he could. He would have to stop for gas before heading south again. He pulled the black helmet off and placed it, as usual, on the right handlebar, then withdrew the leather riding gloves, mucked now with mud and road debris, and laid them across the gas tank. It was soon time to take the tape off the insides of the gauntlets and remove the cash he'd squirreled there. So much to remember; so much drain on his frizzled brain! He was surprised he remembered his own name.

Gregg reached down to liberate his cane from its perch on the bike's frame, and made to dismount. His leg was unresponsive and throbbing, and his foot had swollen to the point that it felt like a chunk of rock. He paused, sore, deliberating. Now what? He balanced precariously for a moment and jabbed at the kickstand with his left boot. The bike leaned into the left swing of the front fork for the instant it took to settle into the difference in its center of gravity. Balance maintained, it shuddered for a moment, then settled.

House snaked his achy right hand beneath the bend of the knee and lifted from the shoulder. His fingers slipped. His foot fell off the peg and hit the ground, and he moaned.

Fuck!

This was so … not right!

He needed the break. Needed the downtime to relax awhile and get his bearings. He was not that far out of Raleigh now, and it would not take him long to get there … if indeed he could get his stubborn, painful body to help with some of the freaking work!

00000000

Across the street a muddy, dirty, slush-spattered white Cadillac Escalade rolled slowly through town. Suddenly it pulled to the side of the street and braked to a stop. Behind the wheel a dark-eyed man ogled the shaggy biker in the diner's parking lot as he pulled himself erect with difficulty.

The dismount from the filthy motorcycle had been heart wrenching to witness, and the man in the SUV cringed in sympathetic pain as the bike rider began to maneuver his reluctant body away from the machine and turn with a small, inadequate cane for support, to stand almost helplessly in front of five cement steps, looking upward as though trying to figure out how the hell to get up there …

Finally, James Wilson leaned his weary head forward into the middle of the car's big steering wheel and crunched down hard on the inside of his lower lip until he tasted the warm, unmistakable salty flavor of his own flesh …

Oh God, House!

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72


	16. Chapter 16

"GUESSWORK"

Chapter Sixteen

"Oh Doctor, Doctor!"

"I have no idea when or how the man will get here," Bernoski told his office manager with a flip of his hands in the air and a clueless expression on his normally self-assured face. "… Other than that he told me he drives a Honda. Could be today … probably today … but it's not carved in stone. I'll be here no matter when he gets here. I didn't press him for details, Neeka. Sorry."

She looked up at him over glasses with bright red frames, perched low on her shiny, wide, chocolate-brown nose. "That doesn't do a thing for me when it comes to keeping y'awl's volunteer schedule straight," she stated petulantly. "I have his name in the computer, but nothing else. How old is he? Race? Nationality? Marital status? Next of kin? Religious preference? Nature of his medical problem? All I have is that he's from New Jersey, he's on his way here as we speak, and he'll be pulling up outside in a rice burner. I need more info than that, Kip!"

Shaniqua Tolliver was forty-one years old and possessed of a corn-fried, deep-south drawl and a needle-sharp intellect honed even sharper by long association with her genius boss. Shaniqua was a proud, loud, large-and-in-charge African American woman who dressed like a New Orleans street walker and commanded the business end of Paramar Clinic like William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings.

Kip had tried calling her "Duke" once, testing her mettle, but she'd railed back at him by informing him snidely that: "… we aint in Normandy, Sweetcakes … and I aint in the habit of wearin' a codpiece!" That ended that. These days he still called her "Neeka", and grinned with one-upmanship every time he caught her bristling.

Shaniqua glared across at Dr. Kevin Bernoski and lifted her lip in a deep dimpled sneer. They often sniped back and forth at each other in this manner. It kept things interesting on a boring afternoon. "What else can y'awl tell me about this Gregory House? At least give me something I can use to write into his profile. I can't believe y'awl'd stoop so low as to enlist a volunteer without finding out _something_ about the man … or telling him something about us …"

Kip eyed her for a moment, considering. How much should he reveal about someone he'd never met; had only talked to briefly on the phone? He sighed. "Not much to tell. He's a doctor, believe it or not … diagnostics, nephrology. He read our article in JAMA. He's a man of few words. His application states why he wanted to see us. On the phone he said that he'd suffered a muscle infarction in his right thigh. Killed the whole quad, jammed up the nerves. Nasty stuff …

"Muscle death … extensive nerve damage. He's experienced chronic pain ever since. He offered to volunteer for us because his pain is getting worse. It begins at 'intolerable', he says, and goes up the scale from there. He's not sure how much longer he can live with it before he does something stupid.

"Some of his friends forced him into drug rehab recently, because they don't know the difference between 'dependence' and 'addiction'. His words. I had no reason not to believe him."

Bernoski stopped talking when he realized she was staring at him with huge black eyes in an expression of awed revulsion, both hands poised, midair, fingers locked into long, red-painted claws above the keyboard of her computer. It took a lot to shock Shaniqua, and Kip was impressed by the display.

"What!?"

She shook her headful of bright orange tangles, and he could see a shiver of cold, deep sympathy stiffen her thick shoulders. African American faith and compassion was a universal force of awesome strength in this woman. _"What_ did you say was wrong with this guy? An infarction in his _leg?"_

Kip nodded. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

She nodded. "Oh yeah. Big time. He _so_ needs to be here, poor baby boy. How in the hell did _that_ happen? Is he even ambulatory?"

Kip shrugged. "I dunno," he said. "The conversation didn't get that far. Just that he was sick of being told what to do by everybody with a mouth …and he was leaving Friday night. He said he'd get here … when he gets here. And he's traveling alone."

Neeka shook her head again, expression darkening, even in a face already dark. "Oh man! He either has the balls of a warhorse … or he's a psycho!"

Dr. Bernoski smiled briefly. "I have to agree, kiddo. But I think he's legit. I could almost tell how much he hurts by the strain in his voice. Been there, done that. I just couldn't refuse him … and we'll do a workup and a profile when he gets here."

Kevin "Kip" Bernoski had been nothing, if not intrigued, by the sparse personal history House had allowed him. He had cringed at the list of compounded medical errors, his own included, as stated by the deep voice on the phone:

**You didn't sue?**

**No. The damage was done. I was on staff, so my bills were paid, and I didn't need the money. I'd sure-as-hell like to get my leg back though … or find a way to relieve part … or all … of the damn pain. So, if you need a guinea pig, I'm your guy! I'm not sure how much longer I can go on like this …**

**Have you had thoughts of suicide?**

**Suicide? Hell no! Homicide, maybe, but not suicide.**

The man was intelligent, sarcastic, totally honest, and Kip had caught the slightest hitch in the timbre of his voice as he spoke. Something was going on there, and he was interested in finding out what. Like a betting round in poker, one player paid to find out what cards were in the other players' hands. Kip found himself more than willing to pay a stiff price to see the rest of Dr. House's hand!

Bernoski shrugged and turned to walk away toward the marked doorways on the other side of the reception area. "I'm going back to the labs, and then on around to check on all our other 'kiddies'. If Dr. House shows up out front, call me. Okay?"

Shaniqua Tolliver nodded, preparing to return her attention to the spiral notebooks full of handwritten daily reports from their staff of researchers. Some of the handwriting was barely legible, to say the least, but Kip depended on her to keep it translated and entered into the system. She had never failed him, and nanocites had no regard for weekends or holidays! If she had not had a teen-age son, Shaniqua might never go home at all.

In order for Paramar Clinic to obtain funding for continued research and new medical procedures, detailed precision within the context of the submitted reports was a necessary evil. This clinic was at the cutting edge of a long series of breakthroughs in designer nanotechnology. The government, along with many private firms, was watching closely. "I'll keep an eye out," she told him, "and I'll let y'awl know if he shows up. Want me to have a wheelchair handy?"

He considered for a moment before he made his decision. "Yeah. Just in case. Maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea …"

She was already out of her chair with the key to the equipment storage room in her hand. "Can do. See y'awl later."

Bernoski walked away toward the door marked "Labs and Hospital", opened and walked through it. Back here, everything opened further into an immaculate corridor, which extended for some distance in both directions.

There were two labs; two doors to the left, one marked "#1", and the other, "#2". In the opposite direction, down the hallway to the right, doors were marked "Hospital: Suite #1, #2, #3." Kip crossed into the corridor and turned left, knocked lightly on the first, then walked in.

The area was large, full of heavy duty animal cages, all of them empty except one. He walked directly to the biggest, most heavily reinforced pen, which contained a streamlined, superbly muscled, pure white animal that resembled a large North American wolf. The animal came to attention and began an excited dancing and head bobbing and tail wagging that made Kip and the man at the table across the room look at each other and laugh.

"Hi Bobby!" Kip exclaimed, and the huge white dog began an excited whining for attention. "How ya doin', big boy?" He reached through the wires of the cage to scratch behind broad silken ears and make a fuss for a few moments.

"You too, Earl," Kip added as an afterthought to the other man. "Need your ears scratched too?"

Earl Keirkgaard, the big man in question, grinned and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Up yours!" he grunted with a smile. He touched the thick joystick of his mechanical wheelchair and rolled forward toward his business partner and best friend with a look of pride on his face. "I think this guy's gonna be fine, Kip. He seems to have returned to his old self again, and he's back to acting like a puppy. I just gotta find a way to keep the big lug from going outside and _grazing!"_

The big dog continued to bounce around his cage in excitement, and had he not been missing most of his right front leg, Bobby was just as normal looking as any other two-to-three year old white German Shepherd. His big secret was, he was not two or three. He was thirteen. He was their first success story, and he kept on keeping on.

Kip Bernoski raised both eyebrows. "Wow! He's our miracle child, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Earl replied. "But that's why I've been monitoring him so closely. For awhile last night I thought we were gonna lose him. Then the big jerk puked up a wad of grass and weeds as big as your fist. About three this morning, he started to move around again. By seven, he was back on his feet. He wolfed down his breakfast an hour or so ago, and been begging for treats ever since."

Kip opened the door of the cage, lifted the heavy dog out of it and placed him gently on his feet on the floor. Bobby's ears went up like semaphores, and he stood gazing back and forth between his mentors, expectant. "Always hungry!" Kip groused good- naturedly. "Earl, he sure doesn't look like he almost got squashed by a bus. And you'd never know he's full of mechanical bugs! Now, if you could come up with a 'bug' mixture that works on you the way Bobby's worked on him …"

Earl tilted his blonde, curly head and looked the other way. Green eyes found an interesting nail hole to study on the opposite wall. Finally he spoke. "The technology isn't up to it, ol' buddy. Not yet. Don't think we haven't been working on it! We're just not ready. But the bugs got rid of my pain for me … thanks to Bobby …and I can concentrate again … and be productive again … and trust me, that's half the battle right there."

Kip smiled a little sadly, and nodded.

Two years previously, in a warehouse downtown, an older-model forklift with an unstable wheel was an accident waiting to happen. A heavy load of perishable cargo, and a stubborn lab rat-physician, too impatient to wait for a driver, hopped on to take the load to the lab. Twenty seconds later he lay trapped under the wreck after it went over. The accident had taken Earl's spinal cord and reconfigured it into something that resembled a pretzel. He lay in the hospital for close to a month before they even got him stable. The trauma had not entirely paralyzed his lower body. He had enough sensation that he screamed in pain every time they moved him.

His doctors did not want to do anything drastic for fear of killing what little nerve responses he had left, and so they gave him a morphine pump to suppress the worst of it, and searched for something more permanent.

Kip Bernoski's clinic came up in conversation many times at that hospital while Earl was there, but like physicians everywhere, those doctors were intensely suspicious. Too much "WOW" factor in modern medicine these days left even the most jaded of the old timers a little skittish.

One night Earl overhead two older physicians, consultants on his case, standing outside his door discussing Paramar Clinic and Kip Bernoski. Earl demanded to learn more. The rest, as they say, was history.

Earl, of course, ended up at Paramar, battling and finally overcoming a nasty morphine addiction. After the success of the original surgery on Bobby, who'd been rescued from certain death beneath the wheels of a Raleigh bus, Earl had volunteered to be next. He needed to put the drug addiction a long way behind him. He had been successful, and pain-free for nearly a year now. He had stayed on there as one of the most dedicated physician-researchers Kip had ever met, and they quickly formed a lasting friendship. But Earl's mobility had not been restored.

Earl said it didn't matter, but the rest of the staff … and Kip … knew he lied …

"You got the mutt's latest stuff all logged in?" Kip asked, filling in around the lengthening silence.

"Everything's over in my log book," Earl replied, glad for the reprieve. "'Shaw-neek-wah' will tear out her witchy-poo hair when she sees it."

"No doubt!" Kip said with a grin. "And by the way … we have that guy I talked to last month … House …coming in later. Probably today sometime. Chronic pain issues. Muscle infarction in his leg. You might want to think about talking to him …"

Earl nodded quickly. "Happy to do it," he said, then frowned darkly. "Infarction? In his _leg?" _

"Yeah … that's the same reaction I got from Neeka. Hers was just a little louder."

They were both interrupted by Kip's cell phone.

Shaniqua Tolliver's voice was only a little shy of hysterical.

"Kip! Kip? You might wanna get out here. As close to _'now'_ as you can make it!

"I think Gregory House has just arrived. That Honda y'awl told me he's driving? Well, it's a damned _motorcycle!_ And he's parked in front of the office.

"Kip … that poor baby looks like death warmed over! We'll definitely need the wheelchair.

"He can't get off the bike …

"Hurry!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

78


	17. Chapter 17

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Seventeen -

"The Diner" - #1

Working his way off the saddle of the bike was intimidating and painful. He was not sure whether he could maintain balance long enough to drag his leg across and down without waves of pain whirling in his thigh, spiking upward, making him dizzy and lightheaded.

He decided that if he leaned forward across the gas tank and over the handlebars, he could slide his foot gradually over the saddle and ease down across the side of the bike until it was on the ground. He tried it, drawing backward slowly, his right hand still supporting the knee. His sore foot gradually scraped across the leather and down over the paint and the chrome. Success. It was on the ground. Rock meeting macadam. One more experiment, one more excursion into guesswork that forever made a contest of his compromised life.

Many times he felt like a contortionist, a plastic toy with joints that swiveled like those of G. I. Joe. He could be contorted in any direction to achieve the desired result, and then swivel back again when the task was completed. Over the years he had come up with a few compensatory tricks to replace things he could no longer manage with the natural ease of an able-bodied human being. He'd made the action of getting up off a floor with no support into a work of art. He had made the lifting of a crippled leg with one hand look effortless and natural, and he had learned to use a cane with an expertise that gave his painful lurching gait the look of grace …

"Grace with ripples" … as Wilson had mentioned once.

House stood still, leaning most of his weight against the bike. His leg hurt again with a dogged persistence that made the tears well up. He forced himself to rest there until the turmoil of the overtaxed muscles and tendons had a chance to tame down to manageable levels.

Ironically, he could feel himself half-smiling into the air at another intrusion into his thoughts by his best friend. He had hornswoggled Wilson completely; left him standing in the dust when he'd turned tail and run away in his selfish bid for freedom. He figured Wilson simply hadn't "got" it. Hadn't made the connection. Hadn't found the damn phone. No reflection on Wilson. His mind did not work the same way House's did.

He gathered his sacred "mental mantle" self-consciously around himself as he reached down for the cane and grasped it tightly in his swollen hand. He looked around surreptitiously, checking the layout of the little hamlet that reclined lazily around him. Apparently no one had witnessed his clunky, awkward movements. Or cared. How damned important did he think he was?

_Bullshit!_

Not a soul that he could see moved around on foot, and there was not a single vehicle in motion on the street. Ghost town.

But the lights were on in the diner.

A fairly new red Chevy pickup was parked a little further toward the south, and behind it something tiny and bilious green and foreign. There was an old blue station wagon that screamed "Chrysler!" up the street in the other direction, and across from it stood a rusty old sedan of uncertain vintage. He could see other vehicles poking out of private parking spaces here and there. None of them running.

Across the street from where he stood, a filthy white Cadillac something-or-other had pulled in and shut down about the same time he had, catty-cornered from his own position. He could hear the faint ticking from the heat of its recent passage as it cooled down. Behind the opaqued glass of its windows he thought he could see the faint silhouette of the driver, still behind the wheel, head bent low over what might be a road map. The cant of the nose and the sharp incline of the brow reminded him a little of Wilson. He scoffed. Hell! Everywhere he looked there was _something _that reminded him of Wilson.

He hitched his breath as a shot of pain spiked in his thigh, and thoughts of the guy in the Caddy fled quickly. Silliness anyway … that Wilson would be anywhere within five hundred miles of this Godforsaken neck of the woods … or driving some huge, fancy, pretentious shag buggy. Furthermore … Wilson was probably back in Princeton, spending Sunday afternoon scratching his head and wondering what the hell was going on.

A little bit of irony here that his friend's image seemed to be everyplace he looked …

_Wishful thinking!_

When he could finally move, he planted the cane firmly beside his right foot only long enough to shuffle the left one the half step it took to bring it alongside. He could tolerate precious little weight on the right. By the time he reached the bottom of the diner's steps, a little of the misery had receded, but getting up there looked easily as difficult as a full flight of stairs, and the passage intimidated him more than he cared to admit.

Gregory House took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the wrought iron railing with his left hand. He could not make the steps in a normal manner, and it was time to become innovative again. He placed most of his weight midway between the cane and the railing. He held his right leg straight, but not stiff. He gathered himself and tested his balance, and when it was right, he hopped up one step and realigned the balance between the railing and the cane without placing weight on the right. In this manner, he made it up the five steps without incident, and sweating like crazy, pulled open the door in triumph.

The inside of the diner turned out almost as he'd imagined it from looking at it outside. The white and red enamel and the polished chrome took him back to high school and college days when such eateries were widely popular in college towns with teen hangouts. He felt right at home in his leather jacket, full beard, filthy jeans and muddy motorcycle boots.

He looked around at the vintage Formica tabletops, countertops, plastic-upholstered bench seats at the booths along the window wall. A step backward in time. Behind the counter, a full menu hung on the wall, and beside it a list of ice cream flavors as long as his arm. He chose a booth near the center of the dining area and moved slowly toward it.

As he'd expected, the swelling in his foot was receding now that he'd been able to get it moving, and his fingers were feeling more like fingers than clubs. He removed his backpack and dropped it onto the seat to his left, then removed the leather jacket and piled it on top and to the right of the backpack. He eased down gingerly and settled into the padded springiness of the bench seat, placed the cane across the table to his left within easy reach.

House sighed. He did not quite know what to do with his leg. It ached, and there was nowhere to prop it up, unless he slouched down in his seat almost up to his neck. Certain inconveniences included with his crippledness were still a total pain in the ass … and elsewhere. He prepared to make do with the reality of what _was_ …

There were batwing doors that led from the counter area to what was most certainly the kitchen, and as Gregg House sat catching his breath, they whop-whopped open and closed a couple of times. He looked up in a distracted manner to gaze eyeball-to-eyeball at a pretty face splotched with freckles and surrounded by carrot-red hair.

The girl leaned across the counter on her elbows and grinned at him. "Howdy, y'awl. I'm Penny."

He gawked. She was pretty. Pretty enough to take his breath away. "Uh … howdy … I'm Gregg." He frowned. This was the second person to whom he'd revealed his name.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Her drawl was so thick he had trouble putting it together at first. "Whut brangs yew down ta this neck o'the woods, Graigg?"

"Unhh …" He felt a moment of northern inarticulateness in her presence. His brain was slow in picking up the nuances of her speech. He made no smart remarks as ordinarily he might have done, for he was indeed the intruder here. He couldn't contain the half-smile though, as he continued to wrack his brain for some kind of appropriate answer, not a total lie. "How'd you know I'm a stranger?"

She snorted good-naturedly. "Hah! Ah cain tell a snowbird from a mah-h-lle away!" The grin that followed the long, drawn out statement held him in rapture for a moment, and he was beginning to fold his mind around the inflections and the altered southern grammatical style. Actually, it was pleasantly distracting and a more than a little welcome.

He allowed himself a smile in return. _When in Rome …_

"Is it too early to order lunch?"

She smiled at him again, and he was almost charmed. "Aint never too early to git-ya some lunch here. What would you like, Sugah? Our cook … BillyJoe? He makes honey frhiied poke chops to diah for! Sweet 'taters, cornbread … big ol' ice tea … apple peih a'la mode for dee-zert …"

"Stop right there," he said. "You talked me into it."

She nodded. "Thought so. Comin' raaht up."

He was amazed how quickly her manner of speaking was smoothing out along his aural relays. "Thanks. Uh … could I have a glass of water?" He was already digging in his backpack for the damn meds.

She nodded. "Raaht away."

The doors beyond the counter whop-whopped again and she disappeared back behind them. House opened the vials and dropped the required meds into his left palm. He put the vials away again and turned his right hand to the business of massaging the angry, buzzing muscles of his thigh.

When she returned, Penny had his glass of water in one hand and a flat, white object in the other. She set down the water in front of him, and unfolded the other thing. To his surprise, it was a small foldable stool, and he watch in consternation as she opened it and placed it on the floor beneath his table. He took the meds while her back was turned, and drank part of the water.

When she stood up again, he was staring at her. She dropped her gaze for a moment beneath his scrutiny, but then seemed to gather courage. "Aint none o' my bidness," she began, "but I saw when y'awl came in, that y'awl walk with a cane … an' I thought … maybe it might help to prop up yore pore foot a little bit …"

He was decidedly uncomfortable, and uncertain how to react to this second random act of kindness during his journey. His mind returned quickly to Molly back in Baltimore, and her instinctive attention to his comfort. She had offered no pity, just a need observed and accommodations willingly made.

Penny stood at the end of the table, awaiting his decision. Not urging, just waiting. Did he want her to help him? He, who was so conditioned against patronizing, sympathy or pity? He looked away for a moment, tortured with indecision and filled with misgivings.

Finally, he nodded. Once. A dip of his chin and done. At that moment, if it might have accomplished anything to ease his pain, he would have let her carry him.

She knelt at the spot where his foot leaned stiff and unwieldy against the floor. She positioned the stool and touched the area of his jeans near the calf. "I'm gonna lift you up … and slaade the stool under yore foot. Ready?"

He nodded, gathering himself. "Yeah …"

And it was done. She rose and turned toward the kitchen again, making no mention of the important thing she had just done for him. Another need observed. And met.

"Yore lunch'll be out d'rectly, Graigg. An' when y'awl're ready to leave … ?"

He looked up.

"Y'awl should go out through the keetchen. Aint no steps out thattaway … don't want y'awl to try to go back down the damn front steps. BillyJoe says he'll push yore bike around back for ya … he saw y'awl ride onto the parkin' lot awhile ago when he was out for a smoke …"

Gregory House looked after her retreating back as the doors whop-whopped behind her.

"Thank you," he said. He hoped she'd heard him. He was too choked up to say it again.

A half hour later, James Wilson in the SUV across the street, saw a thin young man in tee shirt, blue jeans and apron, come out the front door of the diner, hurry down the steps and grasp the handlebars of the Honda Repsol. The hairs rose at the base of Wilson's neck as he saw the young man and the bike disappear around back.

_What the … ???_

Ten minutes later, Gregory House, apparently quite all right and ready to resume his odyssey, rode out of the parking lot, turned right and rode out of sight. As the Repsol made the corner, House's eyes rested for a split second on the Cadillac Escalade. Wilson could have sworn their eyes touched and held for the briefest of moments. Then he was gone. Had House seen him? Recognized him? There was no indication, and no way to tell.

Wilson got out of the car and walked across the road.

83


	18. Chapter 18

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Eighteen -

"The Diner" - #2

Wilson slipped off his windbreaker as he pulled open the door of the diner. He stopped at a table next to the one where remnants of a meal recently eaten still lay scattered across its surface. He paused for a moment and looked around. The place was surreal. He'd heard about antiquities like this one, but had never actually been in one before.

All around him hung posters of movies his parents had seen as children: movies of teen-age angst. Girls in poodle skirts and crinolines, boys in penny loafers and vest sweaters, driving funny looking cars with white wall tires. Doo-Wop music on the radio and the jukebox. The 1950's. A time of innocence. Lover's Lane and necking in the back seat. Bribing little sister or little brother to keep quiet about anything they saw …

_Whoa!_

Wilson folded the jacket carefully and placed it on the seat closest to the window, then sat down. He returned his attention to the booth in front of him, and to the odds and ends of lunch residue that could only have been House's. He also noticed the small white stool abandoned beneath the table, and understood its purpose immediately.

There was nobody else around at this time of day, and Wilson thought that unusual.

He studied the bill of fare on the wall behind the counter and the extensive ice cream list beside it. He looked over the large pie case on the counter and the double-pot coffee machine behind it. The aroma was heavenly.

Where was everyone? Anyone? Waitress? Waiter? Cook?

Curious, he stood up and walked over to the counter. Leaned across and looked beyond it. The tiny round portholes in the bat-wing doors told him nothing. He called out. "Is anyone here? You have a customer if you are …"

Suddenly he heard a door closing, the hum of voices, and a surprisingly pretty redhead with a face full of freckles poked her head through the batwings. "I'm so sawry … I didn't know anyone was out here. I'm Penny. What can I git for y'awl?""

He gawked and frowned. She looked as though she'd been patching up from crying, and he felt a little guilty for his impatience. "Hi Penny. I'm Jim … and that coffee smells wonderful. Have I interrupted? I didn't mean to …"

"No … no … it's nothin' y'awl did. I'm still a little upset. Go over and have a seat. I'll brang y'awl's coffee."

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Wilson's naked concern for anyone in trouble widened his eyes with compassion as he looked at her.

She reached out, touched his arm with her fingers. "Oh no ... no … nothin' like that. There was this mayun …"

Wilson once more understood, only too well. He had seen it before. The abandoned meal on the table over there, the little white stool, still on the floor. House … just by the nature of who he was … had tugged at another set of heartstrings. His tortured friend had absolutely no idea he'd had that affect on another person who knew nothing of his history.

This girl had probably ventured a step over the line, gone a little too far in her instinctive efforts to help someone in pain. House must have fled in silent panic from any hint of solicitude he'd perceived from a total stranger.

Wilson returned her touch, the gentle tips of his fingers for a moment on her hand. He pulled back then, and retreated to the table behind the one Gregg House had occupied. "You must be talking about the disabled man who left here on the motorcycle a few minutes ago …"

Her eyes widened in surprise. This was the second man today who had taken her sensibilities and turned them upside down. This one's gentle brown eyes were as soft and kind as the other man's were pain-filled and hard and blue. She filled his coffee cup nearly to the brim and brought it to his table. She sat down in the booth opposite him. His smile was disarming and charming. Whatever he had to say to her, she wanted very much to hear. "How did y'awl … ?"

"He's my best friend," Wilson said softly. "It's very strange sometimes, I know, but he lives with pain … day after day … every day of his life. He's never free from it, and it has hardened him in ways that most people have a difficult time understanding. He can be cruel and thoughtless without realizing it. The pain does that to him." Wilson shrugged, looked down at his hands around the hot coffee cup.

He watched the girl very closely. Strikingly beautiful. She hung on his every word, and he knew that if he desired it, he might lure her to some out-of-the-way place without too much trouble. But that wasn't what this was about, was it? There was more important business at hand. He felt a moment's regret at what might have been one of the most obviously missed opportunities of his life. So be it.

He continued with what he was saying.

"He's not always suspicious and inconsiderate. He knows when he's gone too far. He knows when he's hurt someone beyond redemption. But he hasn't the grace or the patience to make it right. If he hurts others and they don't heal with time, he abandons them; lets them go.

"Sometimes he lets me see the man beneath the anger … and it's always worth the wait. So please don't be upset by anything he might have done or said."

"Y'awl make it sound so simple, Jim," she said, finally. "Thank yew. I knew Graigg was hurt when he came in. His face was so … I dunno … scrunched. I saw the cane and how bad the limp was. At first, I thought just his foot was hurt. He was … like … walkin' on the toes of his right foot … an' I felt so _bad_ for him … y'know? An' then he started rubbin' an' rubbin' on his laig. He ordered coffee an' poke chops an' sweet 'taters … an' I brought him an ice tea an' a stool from the kitchen to prop his foot up on … y'know?"

Wilson's eyebrows went up. "What was his reaction when you offered him the stool?"

"He jus' sat an' looked at me for a minute … like … was I on the level or somethin'? Then he let me set it up an' lift up his foot on it. After that, it was like he seemed a little better. He ate most of the chops an' stuff … well … y'awl can see what's left on the plate." She gestured, and Wilson's eyes followed the movement. It looked to him as though House had eaten about half of what he'd been served.

"What happened then?" He asked.

"Then," she said, "he took his foot down off the stool and went back to the ress room. He was in there awhile, but I was busy in the kitchen an' didn't take much notice. Then I heard this loud racket comin' from in the back, an' I ran out …"

Wilson's eyebrows went up.

"I think he fell in there. I heard him cuss, an' I heard the top of the metal waste can bang against the wall ... I called out to him, but he said he was fine … "

He saw her eyes mist up, but let her speak at her own pace.

After a moment, she continued. "When he came back out again, he had a paper towel wrapped around his hand. I asked him if he was okay, but it was like he was lookin' straight through me. I already told him BillyJoe could take his bike out back so's he wouldn't have to go down the steps out front … an' he just said for me to ask BillyJoe to do that then." She hesitated, catching her breath.

"An' then he paid his bill an' left. He was awful lame again … as bad as he was when he first came in. He had trouble liftin' his leg across the seat of the cycle … but he wouldn't let neither of us help him …"

Penny dropped her head and reached into her apron pocket to pull something out. When she opened her hand there was a $100 bill in her palm.

"He gave me this … an' he gave one to BillyJoe too."

Wilson crunched his eyes closed for a moment and allowed himself a sigh.

Aw, House … 

When he looked up again, Penny was smiling tightly. "See?" She said. "I knew y'awl were right when you said he wasn't really always inconsiderate. His big ol' heart hurts sooo bad … an' he jus' don't know how to let anybody in …"

When Wilson visited the rest room before he left, he saw the blood spatters in the sink. _He had a paper towel wrapped around his hand …_ The top of the big metal waste can was slightly askew on its base, and further investigation revealed blood along the sharp inside edge.

Aw Christ, House! What have you done now? 

When Wilson left the Chase City Diner, he was full of excellent honey chicken and sweet potatoes, coffee and ice tea: fuel for future battles? He was also worried even more about House, and his fingers clamped around the wheel of the SUV with a death grip.

It was nearing noon, and he was pulling back on the road, back to chasing that damned suicide machine. Cars and pickup trucks began appearing out of nowhere into the parking lot behind him as though by magic, for the local lunch hour.

Penny, the pretty waitress, waved at him from the door of the diner, and he wondered what her reaction would be when she discovered his nervous attempts to scour the blood out of the washbowl in the men's room. He wondered what the hell he had been thinking …

Raleigh, North Carolina was only an hour or two away, and when he next saw Gregory House, he was going to shake the man until his teeth rattled.

Probably.

Or not.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

87


	19. Chapter 19

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Nineteen -

"Crash Cart"

House pulled the bike off the road at a wide place just before the transition to Route 85 South. He'd been riding like a maniac, taking in great draughts of air and holding them as long as he possibly could against the fiery pain in his leg … the tightness in his foot … and now the throb in his hand.

He grunted a curse and pulled the strap tighter across the gauntlet at the left wrist. It was the best he could do for now. The handfuls of paper towels he'd grabbed back at the diner's restroom were quickly becoming soaked with his own blood. It couldn't be helped.

He could still see the horrified expression on the face of the redheaded waitress as they stood face to face outside the restroom door. He'd been hopping crazily in a desperate attempt to recover his balance while clutching the wad of towels to the deep gash in the heel of his hand. His cane still lay where he'd dropped it on the floor in there.

_What-the-fuck next?_

"Graigg?" Her voice was full of screechy alarm, and he knew he had to get the-hell out of there. "Are y'awl all right?"

"I'm fine!" He'd snapped. "Peachy keen!" He'd lurched around then, turning his back on her purposely, and retrieved his cane from where it was wedged beside the toilet.

He'd been washing his hands, drying them on a paper towel, when the leg suddenly caught fire and buckled beneath him. He'd made a desperate grab for the counter top and the rim of the large metal waste can, trying to catch himself before he fell, but his balance was gone, and the leg would not hold him up. And something was going on again with his foot. The removable metal top of the waste can dislodged and his left hand slipped across and scraped against the inside edge like a butcher knife through raw sirloin.

He'd jerked his hand back and stared at it dumbly. His palm was already filling with blood. He pulled a thick wad of paper towels off the roll and applied them to the cut, but there was no time to examine it now. She was right outside.

Desperately he wheeled around on the cane and his sound foot, lunged out the door and around her, snagging his jacket and back pack from the seat of the booth and shouldering into them. He felt an all-consuming need to remove himself from the premises. Immediately!

"Please …" he said breathlessly, "ask your cook to bring my bike around to the back. I need to leave. Now!"

He could feel her eyes stealing furtive glances at his leg, at his bloody hand, at the ice blue hardness of his stare. He figured she probably thought he would go right through her if she didn't obey.

The girl turned away from him after a moment's hesitation, and hurried away without another word. He heard the bat-wing doors whop-whop with her passage into the kitchen. There was a murmur of voices, and the closing of the back door. He lurched along crazily, following her, already breathing in gasps and holding his breath as long as he could stand it against the intensity of this new pain. His foot felt like it was not there.

He left a $20 bill on the edge of the cash register and backed through the doors into the kitchen. He had already pulled the left driving glove over the wad of towels in his hurt hand, and was pulling it even tighter with his teeth.

Penny was standing at the door, looking into the back parking lot for the cook named BillyJoe to bring the Repsol around. He could see she was crying silently, not quite understanding what she might have done to upset him, or what might have happened in the rest room when he had injured himself. It did not take a genius to see the blood splattered in the sink …

He walked up behind her and stopped, at a loss for words. There was nothing he could say to make it right, so he said nothing. Again, his leg had made a difficult situation almost impossible.

"Here …" He said, finally. "For you … and BillyJoe …" He held out his right hand, cane hanging from his forearm. The kid was coming around the corner pushing the Honda.

She looked up at him, uncertainty clouding her already blotchy features. "What … ?"

"Take this!" He said sharply. He was already maneuvering himself around in front of her, opening the door to step out. The cane was dug into the floor again, wedged against his hip, whatever was in his hand transferred to the left, and he gestured heavily for her to open her hand. Finally she did.

He dropped two bills into her palm. "For the trouble," he said. "And the mess. I'm sorry."

He shouldered his way out the back door and hobbled painfully to the bike, grasped the handlebars from the kid's hands. He nodded once and racked the cane, then reached for the helmet, slipping it on. The kid steadied the bike firmly, watching.

He had to lift his leg clumsily over the saddle with both hands, and even then it was almost too much. The inflamed nerves screamed in protest and another fiery warning shot up his arm from the cut in his hand. Sometimes life just completely _sucked _… no matter what you did!

He started it up and let it idle for a few moments. He tightened the chinstrap and drew on the other glove.

_Ow!_

They watched him pull out and throw gravel getting onto the road. He did not look back. There was nothing he could have done to have things any different.

He caught an instant's glimpse of the guy in the big white SUV. Still sitting there. Waiting for somebody … He could have sworn they'd made eye contact for not more than half a second … and the look he'd received in return was so heartbreaking and so familiar that he could not believe he'd seen it.

_Everywhere!!_

Everywhere … he was seeing Wilson.

He thought suddenly of the red necktie, still stuffed in the gift bag, somewhere deep in his backpack, or in the saddlebags.

Even when he felt as though he could _still_ have busted the man's chops, or tossed his ass over a cliff onto a busy highway … Wilson was still on his mind … in his heart.

House sat at the side of the road and stared at the left driving glove. Tightening the strap across the tendons at the underside of the wrist did little to stop the bleeding. It had hardly slowed. He wondered about his clotting factors … there was a telltale stain slowly spreading across the thick leather of the palm. And the damn thing hurt!

He revved the engine, shifted gears and repositioned his left foot on the peg. The transition to Route 85 went smoothly, and he knew he was within shoutin' distance of Raleigh and the Paramar Clinic.

He felt like he might be riding straight through the gates to Hell …

000000000000

Kip Bernoski held his cell phone away from his face for a second and stared at it. Behind him, Earl Keirkgaard looked at him with a frown. Shanikqua Tolliver almost _never_ got this rattled, and Kip was getting a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach that the shit was about to hit the fan …

He turned on his heel and raced out of there at an awkward run, calling back over his shoulder: "I think our boy has arrived, man … call out the troops and meet me at the front ramp!"

000000000000

Gregg came down off the exit from 85 cautiously, holding the Repsol in tight control. At the stop sign he turned right, looking ahead at the Raleigh skyline as it unfolded like a travelogue film before him. Tall, glass skyscrapers, intermingled with older buildings and artistic, geometric shapes, blended into the panorama with pleasing results. Like he gave a shit right now!

As he rode along, House kept a close watch to either side of him while motorists of a busy population and cultural center swarmed like bees around him. Traffic was intense, even for a late Sunday afternoon, and even though he knew that he was very close to his destination, he must not for a moment let his guard down. The area he was riding through was a maze of strip malls, rental furniture places, quickie-loan offices, bail bondsmen's offices and fast food joints that gave off odors that he found nauseating.

House knew he was fast approaching the limits of his endurance. His left hand throbbed mightily, and he was gradually losing control of the fingers. He needed them desperately for the bike's gears, which meant he had to locate Paramar Clinic quickly and get himself off the road before he did something disastrous and ended up killing somebody … somebody like himself!

At the next stop sign he turned left and into an area with less traffic, little in the way of tourist traps, and surprisingly, little excess noise. The road back here was almost, but not quite, an industrial park. "Farmington Road", the sign at the intersection said, and he knew he was very close. A few hundred yards further on, he could see a huge, flat, white building, a single story tall, and laid out like the letter "E". There was a very sturdy, elongated construction in the back with many windows, strategically spaced entry doors that opened into the parking lot with no steps or ramps. It had vertical blinds at all the windows, which made him snort with ironic laughter.

At both ends of the long structure, he could see what appeared to be residential wings that poked out into and surrounded a very large paved parking lot with many handicapped stalls in front. There were vertical blinds on these windows also, but behind them he detected draperies and what looked like actual furniture that one might see in a private residence.

In the middle, exactly halfway between the two end wings, another, shorter projection jutted outward. In front of it was a simple wooden sign with the legend: _Paramar_, and nothing else. In front was a cement porch under roof, closed in by a sculpted wrought iron railing. Still more elaborate wrought iron flanked steps and wheelchair ramps on either side.

House pulled up in front and brought the Repsol to a halt in front of the porch. He scoffed softly to himself at the irony of repetition he'd amassed throughout this journey. He wondered how someone like himself, with a leg which didn't work, but who did not use a wheelchair, managed to get up the steps or up the ramps, whose gradual inclines were just as difficult … if not more so. And it occurred to him to wonder if the south might have a corner on the market when it came to wought iron …

He shut off the Honda's engine and sat resting for a moment until his body … and the bike … stopped pinging. Vehicles parked in front were mostly in the "handicap" stalls. He searched for some indication of activity around the place that might tell him there were actual living beings somewhere around …

He pulled off the helmet and parked it, as usual on the right handlebar. He yanked the right glove off with his teeth, but decided against removing the left one, not knowing for sure what the hell he would find if he did so.

His leg was an ongoing misery, and he sat still and let it get used to no more potholes and no more vibration. Alas, it didn't like sitting still any better. He balanced himself cautiously, then tricked up with his left foot and extended the kickstand. He let the bike lean over and placed his weight on the healthy side while the buzzing and worm-like crawlies screwed around in his thigh and gradually began to slow down.

Gregory House was three miles past exhausted and moving quickly into half dead. His foot was hurting again, worse now, as were his hands, the left one even more so. His vision was fading in and out, with little white spots in the peripherals and blackish blotches in the middle.

_Goddamn useless meds! Christ! Am I gonna pass out? _

He sat still, holding onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth, wondering if his pathetic situation was being monitored by anyone inside. Even if it was, would they reach him in time to keep him from landing on the asphalt with the freakin' heavy bike on top of him? He hit the horn button and the thing brayed like a burro that had been kicked in the ass.

The last thing he remembered was the door at the top of the wheelchair ramp bursting open, and a crowd of bizarre-looking people streaming toward him. One of them was riding a mechanical wheelchair and shouting … and there was a huge-ass, white, three-legged dog, jumping around and barking his fool head off right there beside his only goddamn healthy leg, which was buckling under him as the world faded away …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

92


	20. Chapter 20

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty -

"Looking for the Good Stuff"

He felt like a bubble. A big freaking bubble …

… like something released reluctantly by a huge creature from the depths of the ocean, rising to the surface and buffeted by water currents in the same manner a red helium balloon, freed from careless childish fingers, might waft upward, caught by a sudden swirl of updraft on its journey to the clouds.

He was pain free, light in mind and body, drifting languidly somewhere between the "here" and the "there". No hurry. Relaxed, comfortable, content to remain limber in the manner of a wet washcloth left behind after all the water has drained from the sink. Unhinged and unlimbed.

He could feel the comfort of clean linens against his back and his legs and his buttocks and his head. From time to time he caught a waft of bleach and ammonia and Irish Spring. Medicinal, antiseptic, clean and fresh …

… And a tinge of something else, redolent of the first whiff of a box of sterile gauze or a roll of adhesive tape, newly opened.

_Whuff! Blick!_

His eyelids were heavy, unwilling to open for the present, and his mind was at rest, void of anticipation or curiosity. All he wanted at this moment was to allow whatever was here to stay here and claim him as its own. Let it lull his senses as the breezes played with the red balloon and the ocean currents sparred with the slowly rising bubble.

Harmony. Pianissimo.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, savoring whatever portion of cloud he might be cocooned within, letting every pore absorb the tactile sensations being offered him freely by whatever … whomever … might be so inclined to indulge him. It was so nice, so perfect, and so destined to end when the clock-of-all-things ticked over another second …

It stole upon him in tiny waves, whatever it was that was coming his way. It changed his breathing patterns in miniscule increments, and he knew his moments of rapture were going to end very soon. Just like the fifteen minutes of fame every human being was supposedly granted by Providence …

He began to feel a tightness, a tension in the skin on the back of his right hand. Like a pinprick that made his breath hitch, and then gone. And then again. And again. And still again. It wasn't going away. It did not cause him pain, but it was a small discomfort. Just an annoyance. An IV was taped firmly in place there. He realized it when he tried to make a fist.

His other hand was coming alive as well. As though he had thoughtlessly touched his palm to a hot wire. Waves polluted with radioactive waste, lapping persistently at the shore. Again and again and again. Like a light switch being turned on. And off. And on. He was experiencing slow electrocution as he observed from a distance.

His breath hitched. This was not an annoyance anymore. It was pain.

The pain had caught up with him and he could feel the popping of the bubble, the fading away into the wild blue yonder of the red balloon …

He moved his head, and something unfamiliar raked gently through his hair, making him flinch, giving him gooseflesh. There were voices, far away. Whispers so low that all he could catch were the S's, the hissing sounds and the slight popping of the P's. He caught the word "suppose".

That raking sensation in his hair persisted, fingertips across his scalp, an easy, massaging, caressing, scratching; not unpleasant, he thought. Even a little familiar. His return to pain faded into the background for a moment, and he rode the waves of tactile pleasure.

Then it came to him. A name.

Stacy?

Encouraged, he opened his eyes.

Not Stacy! Not unless she had recently acquired a very deep, charbroiled suntan, dyed her hair orange and had put on at least forty pounds.

"Uh-oh …" He said. Because his lips just would not form anything else yet.

The face of the woman above him smiled down, and she took her hand away from his hair. He stared at the bright red nailpolish and the orange fright wig and the fire-engine red sundress, and wondered if he was going into sensory overload. He closed his eyes again, allowed himself a deep breath, and stared again. He was not dreaming. She was still there, and the backs of her hands were now caressing his face tenderly, and the feeling was certainly not unpleasant. He leaned into it and made an effort to return the smile.

She was looking away from him now, lifting her gaze to someone across the room, the source of the whispers. Her voice was like southern fried chicken, and sweet as the honey in the hive. He found himself hanging on it. Dangling from it. Swinging beneath it!

"Kip? Look … our baby boy is awake. Don't y'awl think it's time to fill him in a little about what's happenin'?"

What? "Baby Boy?"

Gregory House could feel the return to awareness spreading through his body in a series of angry waves. A moment of nausea gripped his gut for a heartbeat. Then it passed, and he could focus, not only on the footsteps approaching, but also a couple of electric motors and the all-too-familiar thump-step-thump of at least one pair of crutches.

He frowned.

"Baby Boy"?

A tall, blond-haired, green-eyed body builder walked over to his bedside and looked down at him with raised eyebrow, in curiosity and amusement. "I certainly hope you're Gregory House," the man said in a casual manner. "Otherwise, we just spent a little over two hours shaving, medicating, patching and scrubbing the wrong dude!"

House looked over the ring of faces that surrounded his bed. The blond's words had not quite sunk in yet. Everyone within his field of vision, however, was disabled in one way or another. Suddenly he felt like one of the most able-bodied people in the group, and not so damned much out of place anymore.

"I'm Gregory House," he stated quietly. He continued to survey present company, eyes raking across the plethora of mechanical appliances within view.

The big blond guy had to be Kevin "Kip" Bernoski … but who the others were he had no idea. Patients? Volunteers? Staff? There were at least ten crippled people standing (sitting?) around.

He decided that the big black broad beside him looked healthy as a horse, and from her bearing she probably carried a lot of weight (Oh … way to go, Gregg!) in this goofy-looking corporation.

The others? There was another burly blond in a mechanical wheelchair, looking at him with a serious expression on his face. A second wheelchair held a diminutive Asian woman with a round, pretty face and sparkling black eyes. She controlled her chair with a mobile switch on a paddle beside her chin.

Goddamn! She's freaking gorgeous … and she's a quadriplegic!

The last person to catch his attention was a husky black kid who looked a lot like the gawdy broad. "Junior" used rackety aluminum arm canes with sports stickers all over them, and dragged his legs when he walked. But at least he walked! From the look of him, House guessed he was a victim of Cerebral Palsy.

"So who are you?" House asked the kid.

"I'm Tyree," said the boy. "This here's my mom." He thrust his jaw in the big woman's direction, which brought a lopsided grin in return from House.

"I would never have guessed," he replied.

"Well, Gregory House," the big blond said, "I suppose you've guessed that I'm Kevin Bernoski. Everybody calls me 'Kip'. We spoke on the phone some time ago." At Gregg's nod, he went on. "The big dude here is Earl Keirkgaard. He runs our Lab #2 and hangs out with that mutt over there …" Kip turned and indicated the big white dog with the missing front leg, looking lazy and sprawled out in a corner. "That's Bobby … and you'll be seeing him around."

Earl nodded a greeting, and House nodded in return as well as he could from his position flat on his back.

Kip turned to the Asian woman beside Earl, who rolled in a little closer and smiled down at House with a friendly twinkle in her eye. "You wouldn't know it to look at her, but this is Lillian Chan … and she plays a mean piano!"

House frowned in consternation at the piano reference, which made absolutely no sense at all. The others could not help laughing at him, and he took notice that the crowd was beginning to thin out, now that the excitement was over.

"What?"

"You will see, Dr. House, that our boss is quite a jester." Lillian said with a lilt in her voice.

"Last but not least …" Kip continued with a grin, "the lady holding your hand …"

House looked down, and was surprised to find that the big woman was indeed holding his hand, heavily bandaged under layers of white gauze. Her touch was gentle, and he could feel the warmth through the bandages. He looked from his hand to her face, and saw nothing but bright amusement and silent compassion …

"… is Shaniqua Tolliver, mother of 'Typhoon Tyree' over there, and ruler of this magic kingdom. We have others on our staff, technical people mostly. You'll meet some of them later.

"Right now though, you need to get some rest and begin to recuperate. There is a deep laceration in the heel of your hand. We had to clean it, stitch it, and load you up with antibiotics. Your right foot has developed an ulcer that is going to take a lot more drastic day-to-day treatment. You won't be walking for awhile. We'll go into that stuff tomorrow … but what you need right now is sleep, sleep, and more sleep."

House looked from one new acquaintance to another until he had nodded gravely to each one, then back to Kip. "Thank you," he said. "I'm not experiencing the mind-draining pain that I'm used to … for the first time in months, and I feel almost … human."

Beside him, Shaniqua smiled, then spoke to Kip in a lowered voice. "Aren't you going to tell him about … ?"

Kip shook his head as though reminding himself of something important, but sadly missed. "I guess I forgot in the heat of the moment …

"Dr. House, there is a man waiting in the office out front who says he knows you. In fact, he tells us he's your best friend, and he's been trailing you all the way from New Jersey.

"Know anything about that?"

Gregg House closed his eyes and allowed a tiny smile to quirk upward at one corner of his mouth.

Shaniqua nodded at the others. "He knows, all right!" She said. She returned her attention to House and touched his hollow cheek with the back of her hand.

"Is it okay with you if we send him back? We need to let him know what's going on with you. Okay? He's a little worried about you, and he's been here almost from the time we brought you in …"

House sighed heavily in relief. Wilson! A bet with himself, long made and now finally won, caused him to struggle to keep a straight face.

"Yeah, you can send the pest back if you want to …

"… otherwise, I'll never be rid of him as long as I live."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

97


	21. Chapter 21

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-One -

"Spikes and Stringers"

"Dr. Wilson?"

James Wilson was sitting on an uncomfortable settee in Paramar's outer office with his soiled windbreaker in his lap when Kip Bernoski walked into the room. Wilson clambered to his feet quickly, startled at the sudden appearance, and whirled to face the other doctor. His cell phone fell out of one jacket pocket, and House's cell phone and an amber vial of pills fell out of the other. He stooped to pick them all up and returned his attention to Bernoski. His face was haggard with fatigue, his mind obviously elsewhere.

"How is he?" Were the first words out of Wilson's mouth.

Bernoski walked over to the settee and lowered himself onto it, which forced James Wilson to do the same. "He's fine," Kip said. "Well, maybe not 'fine' … but he's a lot better than he was three hours ago. Before I let you go back so see him, Dr. Wilson, we need to talk …"

Wilson's brow furrowed, eyes darkening. "What does that mean, exactly?" He asked in a voice laced with caution.

Kip smiled. "Now don't get all worried. It's not that drastic. It's just that our methods here are a bit different from the ones you're used to back where you come from, and you're going to have some questions." Kip paused before continuing, letting his initial words sink in with this man.

Wilson was all ears, his tired face a question mark. But he was skeptical of anything that might endanger his friend, and he wasn't sure if Bernoski really understood his concerns. "I already have questions I'm not sure you have answers to …"

Kip continued in a gentler tone. "Y'know, Doctor, you look almost as bad as he does. Unless I miss my guess, neither one of you has had any decent sleep in days."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. Was this person trying to distract him?

"Well … yeah," he admitted. "I think I got about three hours out of the last forty-eight. But that's not what's important. The second part of your answer to my question, if you recall, is still a little vague. The only thing that matters to me at this moment is the current condition of Gregory House I need to know anything you can tell me about what's going on with him … and whether or not your … 'methods' … can do anything to help him."

Bernoski nodded. "I know you're worried. He's very tired, but he's not in any serious pain. You may even have to wake him up when you go back there. He's lacerated his hand somehow. There's a nasty gash at the base of his left palm. He ignored it, and we had to put him on intravenous meds so it wouldn't develop into something more drastic. He's on an antibiotic wash that one of my clinicians came up with about a year ago, and it seems to be doing the job."

"What about his leg?" Wilson insisted. "His breakthrough pain has increased recently, and I … in my infinite wisdom … didn't listen to him as I should have when he tried to tell me how bad it was …"

Bernoski held up a hand. "Please … Dr. Wilson … do us all a favor and give yourself a break. None of us can be the wise and generous counselor all the time! Dr. House has been placed on a temporary pain-reduction regimen that my staff calls 'Spikes and Stringers', and he is …"

"What?" Wilson's frown had an edge of suspicion.

"I said 'temporary", Doctor."

"Yeah, I heard you … but I have no idea what you're talking about …"

"I know you don't. I'm trying to tell you, if you'll just listen for a moment. Let me ask you … what does this man's well-being _really_ mean to you, Dr.Wilson?"

James did not hesitate. "He's my best friend! I want what's going to work for him, and I want to see him free of this God-awful leg pain that's been driving him out of his mind forever …"

Kip smiled. _"Exactly!"_

Both men stopped talking.

Two experienced medical professionals sat very still for a moment, each in stiff-necked appraisal of the other, both analyzing the very short conversation that had just taken place between them. It was a given that their areas of expertise were worlds apart, their ideas as different as it was possible to get and still remain on the same wavelength.

James Wilson: the classic, by-the-book Oncologist, who would not dream of stepping over an ethical line … except maybe where Gregory House was concerned. His polar opposite: Kevin Bernoski, who was a raging envelope-pusher extraordinaire, who could not bring himself to stay _behind_ those same lines. Both men searching desperately to find common ground.

They allowed the interval of lengthening silence to stretch before them interminably, neither willing to give concessions or become the first to commit himself. They simply scrutinized each other, searching for nuances of expression or body language that might indicate truth or falsehood, integrity or deception.

Bernoski was the first to break the silence. "You aren't being exactly truthful with me, are you, Dr. Wilson?"

James frowned, bristling at being called out. "What do you mean?"

Kip smiled and his face relaxed. "You're so afraid I'm going to injure him beyond all redemption …"

Wilson's mouth dropped open, ready to voice denial.

Kip held up a hand and grinned. "No!" He said. "Don't! I get it! I have a best friend too … so I know where you're coming from. You love the hell out of the guy, and your emotional investment in him is so huge that sometimes it overwhelms you.

"Just let me assure you of this: there is nothing … _nothing_ … that I …or anyone here … would ever do intentionally that would hurt this man. Not for all the tea in China or all the salt in the ocean.

"I recognize his pain for what it is. I understand it, I feel it within him, and I know exactly what he's going through. If there's any way possible for those of us at this hospital to stop it … we will. All of us. We _will!"_

Wilson dropped his eyes for a moment. Any lingering apprehension he might have had, slowly evaporated as he sat there. "I'm not sure I understand how you can …"

"Jim …" Kip's voice was exceedingly gentle, cutting through Wilson's gravest concerns immediately. "I need to show you something. Take a look at this, will you?" He leaned forward across his thighs and began rolling up his left pant leg.

What was revealed beneath the fabric that peeled away above the white sneaker and soft gray sock was a strong stainless steel rod that extended from an artificial foot, nearly to Kip's knee. It ended in a large leather cuff, into which fit a very soft pouch of white material that covered the stump of what still remained of Bernoski's left leg.

"You're … an amputee …" Wilson breathed. "I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't," Kip assured him, rolling his pant leg back down where it belonged. "It's not something I normally show off to people. I don't want anyone to think I'm vying for sympathy … or begging for funding … any of that crybaby shit …

"But you two guys are a special case. A 'cause celebre', if you will. We all understood that right away … just as soon as you showed up out front right after Gregg did.

"Y'see, it was one thing for Gregg to volunteer for the nanocites pain program … I could relate to that … and I felt for him right away. But for _you …_ to actually care enough about him to follow behind like a bloodhound all the way from New Jersey … and keep yourself from interfering with his need to be here … just trying to keep him safe … Well! That's extraordinary!

"I just thought you had a right to see what the little devils can do." Bernoski turned in the seat to look at Wilson in a different light; gauge his reactions to what he'd just seen. What Kip actually saw, however, was not what he'd expected.

Wilson's eyes were swimming, his face averted. "You understand how House feels," he admitted sadly, "because you've been there. You _know_ how badly he hurts …"

"Yeah," Kip admitted. "I do. I was in an accident. Long time ago, right after I opened this clinic. Drunk driver. T-boned us at a red light. Forced our car off the road, down an embankment and into a tree. I was pinned inside after the car caught fire. My wife was driving. She didn't make it. The EMTs couldn't save her. The bastard that hit us walked away with scratches, and I wanted to kill him.

"They couldn't save my leg, and for a long time I prayed to God to just let me die. The muscles were smashed, nerves mangled. Like Dr. House, I had nothing but pain. For years. I was on crutches, in a wheelchair. Couldn't work … couldn't anything!

"Then Lillian showed up. Got me away from feeling sorry for myself. Together, we came up with the procedure that saved my sanity … and now I'm virtually free of pain. Very little anymore. When Earl arrived, he and Lillian teamed up.

"After that, we worked on it further and developed it from what we already knew, and the difficulty of the work gave me a reason to want to live again. I was the first to have the breakthrough surgery … and it worked. Then Earl had it. It worked for him as well. Lillian, unfortunately, still isn't a candidate … but we're working on that too. Kind of an extension of the 'Christopher Reeve' thing. He's our inspiration.

"Truthfully, Jim, the nanocites fail about half the time. I have to be honest with you about that. But the successes are mounting, and they're so much more than the failures. The procedure is still very limited in scope, and we have to do an enormous amount of screening to find the right people for the program. It's difficult. And I promise you … I will move heaven and earth to have it work for Gregg. He's suffered long enough. He volunteered for us, and he's a prime candidate.

"Of course, there is nothing we can do for the missing muscle in his thigh. That may or may not strengthen after the pain is gone … probably not … but we can hope. He'll still need his cane … probably even crutches for awhile afterward … but it'll be better than the constant agony he's been living with all these years. Are you going to be okay with that, Jim?"

Wilson sighed. "I hope so. It's a lot to swallow at one sitting, and I know I'll think of more questions. Thanks for trusting me with all of that disturbing personal information. I'm very sorry about your wife. You have no idea how much I appreciate everything you told me. If it works for House, he can actually have a life again. Oh God!"

Kip grinned and stood up. "Are you ready to go back to see him now?'

"Yeah … I certainly am …"

00000000

Sunday evening was winding down, and so was James Wilson. He could feel the ache spreading through his back and legs, and his feet were almost dragging as they made their way down the corridor in the hospital wing. His shoulders felt as though he were carrying a hundred-pound weight, and his eyes burned mightily. He rubbed at them as he and Kip walked shoulder to shoulder toward the room where Gregory House lay shackled to yet another hospital bed.

"Your ass is kinda draggin' your tracks shut, isn't it?" Kip inquired lightly.

Wilson saw no reason to deny it. The evidence was written in capital letters all over his body. "Yeah," he admitted. "It sure is. After I see House, I've got to get going and see about checking into a hotel or motel or something …"

"Oh no! No you don't!" Kip said. "You're not going anywhere, man."

"Huh?" Wilson was unclear what Bernoski meant.

"We have accommodations for family members right here. You don't have to go out and try to find a place to sleep in this town on a Sunday night. Huh-uh. Aint happening! All your gear from your car … and all of House's belongings we took off his bike … are in a private room with your name on the door … across the wing a ways from where Gregg is housed right now. And there are laundry facilities if you need 'em."

Wilson's eyes widened. "But I'm not … I don't understand …"

Kip laughed, deep and resonant. "Not family, huh? Think again, pal! As far as we're concerned, you are. Anyway, it's a moot subject. My office assistant … whom you're about to meet … 'cause right now she's smothering Gregg with 'Neeka-Love' … will have something to say about that … and when it comes to accommodations, she's the boss."

Kip's pace slowed. They were approaching a very large treatment room whose door stood open upon an area with a vast array of strange medical equipment, unfamiliar- looking laboratory apparatus and intimidating diagnostic machinery with built-in gauges and other additions that Wilson had never seen before

In the middle of the room stood a large hospital bed with IV stanchions, body hoisting equipment, BP and oxygen monitors. There were two other electronic monitors he did not recognize, plus a Foley rig. House's body, stripped to tee shirt and underwear, lay covered, except for the bad leg, with a thermal blanket.

Beside him, a flamboyant black woman with a gaudy hairdo and a gaudy red dress, sat humming "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" in a pleasant contralto. Her arms rested on the edge of the mattress, both hands gently cupping House's injured, heavily bandaged left hand in both of her own.

Wilson's eyes went immediately to House's other hand where an IV port was hooked in and carefully taped down on the back of it. His crippled leg was encased in a long sling apparatus and hoisted six inches or so off the bed.

Wilson could see taped wounds and traces of blood at the temporary entry ports of tiny needles inserted beneath Gregg's skin. There were four separate insertions just outside the perimeter of the huge surgical scar. A neat maze of tiny electrical wires was attached to the points emerging from the area around the missing muscle. Wilson's discerning eyes traced the leads to their contact junctions at the two unfamiliar monitors behind the bed. Intimidating stuff! He blanched.

House's right foot was bandaged also, from an area just below his anklebone, down to the point where his toes joined his foot.

_What the hell … ? Oh no! Not his foot too! Please God; tell me he hasn't screwed up his foot!_

Kip Bernoski and the woman beside the bed watched the expressions and the emotions flash like summer lightning across James Wilson's tired face. They saw Wilson's eyes narrow further, momentarily. Then, surprisingly, a corner of his lip quirked upward into the beginning of a snarky smile. Gregg House's tethered body did, in fact, resemble a high-tech Frankenstein Monster.

If it weren't so frightening, so horrifyingly real, and yet so grimly "Sci-Fi", it would have been hilariously funny. If House were conscious, and could see himself from a distance, he would probably laugh his head off!

Wilson moved closer to the bed, flanked by Bernoski slightly behind him and to the left.

The woman placed House's hand very gently by his side and made to rise and get out of Wilson's way. Kip stilled her for a moment with a small motion of his hand, resting it lightly on her shoulder.

"Shaniqua …"

She froze and looked up just as Jim Wilson looked down. "This is Dr. House's friend and colleague, Dr. James Wilson.

"Jim, this is my assistant, Shaniqua Tolliver. She's been at Gregg's side ever since he was brought in this afternoon."

The two exchanged courtesies and Neeka got up to offer her chair to Wilson. "I'm sure y'awl want to visit with him," she said quietly. "I'll be out front … and it's nice to have met y'awl, Dr. Wilson."

"My pleasure," Wilson answered automatically. His focus, however, was nowhere but on the thin, narrow, naked and lined face of his best friend. "You … you … shaved him!"

"Yeah … we did," Kip said. "Why?"

Wilson grinned, sat down in the chair and turned to look up into his host's face. "This has got to be the first time I've seen his bare, ugly mug in … oh … about two years, or maybe three. He looks lousy, doesn't he? … like he's been interred in a concentration camp or something …"

The question, of course, was rhetorical, but there was more truth in it than falsehood. "Yeah, " Kip agreed. "He sort'a does. His pain has taken a lot out of him. How the hell could people not _see_ that?"

"People see what they want to see," Wilson mused sadly. "His pain made him a bastard, and people needed to see the bastard. They didn't know how to react to someone who was in so much pain … and who never got any better. They needed an excuse to blame his pain on _him! _And the word, 'bastard', fits so well with the word, 'addict'. Like I said, people see what they want to see. Sad thing is … even those of us who care for him a lot were beginning to listen to what other people were saying …"

Shyly, Wilson reached his hand across the mattress to lightly finger the thick bandages on House's left hand. When he spoke again, it was mostly to himself.

"He stopped at a diner this morning. I was parked across the road. When he finished, he went to the rest room, and his leg must have buckled on him. The waitress told me later that he fell … reached out to catch himself and knocked the top off a metal waste can … sliced himself on the rim. She said he patched it with paper towels and pulled his glove over it and tightened it down. Then he left. That's how he hurt his hand …"

Kip nodded. "That's pretty much what we speculated might have happened. We pulled almost half a roll of paper towels out of the glove. Bloodsoaked. There's a jagged two-inch gash in his palm. Bet it hurt like hell … something else to keep his leg company. No wonder he couldn't get off the motorcycle when he got here. Leg wouldn't work … and neither would his hand. He couldn't win …"

Wilson nodded. "What's wrong with his foot? Decubitus ulcer, maybe? From the bike's footrest?"

"'Fraid so," Kip replied. "Compression injury. Traumatized from resting it so long in one place on the peg … and he probably didn't know it was happening. He felt it as just one more ache … hour after hour in the same position. Circulation problems on that side, obviously. He's probably had problems with the lower right leg and foot as long as his leg's been crippled. He never mentioned it?"

Wilson shook his head sadly. "No … but it doesn't surprise me. Always with the 'I'm fine' stuff. I'm not surprised he hid it this long. Not really …"

James Wilson _was_ upset! One more thing that a best friend should have noticed. But didn't.

Beside him on the huge bed, Gregory House finally began to stir …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

105


	22. Chapter 22

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Two -

"Goodnight Sweet Prince"

The first thing that intruded into his awareness and cracked open the sealed vault of his conscious thoughts, was the resonance of a familiar chuckle. He grunted something pithy and profound in response … wanting only for the owner of the soft voice to come closer and show his face … he cracked open his eyes in anticipation.

"Mnfffh …"

He was experiencing dull persistent pain in his left hand, and in the foot on his bad side. He wondered, momentarily, why his crippled leg, which he'd been abusing for 600 miles on the road, did not hurt also. He knew he was lying flat out on his back, restrained by something as yet beyond his ken. His mind still swam in a sea of puzzlement that just didn't seem important enough to warrant more than a passing thought … and that seemed to be all he could manage to keep together right now.

There was no pillow beneath his head. He decided if he squinted his eyes a bit and stole a glance toward the foot of the bed, he could see the thing that encased his leg and swam gradually into sight, reminding him of the framework for a miniature roller coaster. Questions arose at last, and he decided there was information he didn't have that he needed to ask questions about.

He was so damned tired. It took a major effort just to pry his eyes open the rest of the way.

Above him, another pair of anxious brown eyes gazed down. Gregory House licked his parched lips and made an effort to pull a corner of his mouth into a smirk. He was not certain whether he had been successful, so he made an extra effort to find his voice …

"Th … thirsty …" He was aware of a quick hitch of breath and a rattle of something in a plastic container. Ice chips from a spoon moistened his dry lips and tongue.

"You're awake!"

"Nope. Talkin' in m'sleep …" One final effort, and his eyes opened completely to take in the rest of the face that went with the puppy dog eyes. "Hey … Wilson … you moron. Have a nice trip?"

"Hey, House. How are you?"

Gregg could feel the laughter welling up into the back of his throat. Sardonic laughter. Awww …dumb-ass Wilson … thinking he didn't know what the hell was going on …

"M'sleepy. Think they … slipped me a Mickey?" With great effort he took a deep breath and felt some of his more normal thought processes struggling to return.

He picked up his left hand and stared at it as though it might be a foreign object, temporarily attached. "Hurts," he said, almost as an afterthought.

He watched with detachment as Wilson turned to sit down on the edge of his bed and leaned across to take a closer look at the strange apparatus attached to his leg. He followed Wilson's scrutiny for a short time, but it took more concentration than he was capable of maintaining at the moment.

Wilson spoke in a low tone to someone else across the room, and House became aware of another person moving closer to his bedside. A tall blond man in white tee shirt and blue jeans walked up to the bed. House stared at him, trying to focus in with a coherent thought. He had seen this man before, but could not remember where. Or when. Could _he_ have something to do with that thing on his leg?

He was having trouble making sense of their words. They spoke in lowered voices, and he was only picking up the P's and the S's, like before. He watched Wilson as his friend leaned close at his side, but Wilson's image seemed to be graying out … getting fuzzy around the edges. When Wilson reached across carefully to pick up his painful hand, House hissed through his teeth and snatched it away.

"No! Hurts!"

Wilson sat back and looked at him strangely. The frown returned … those deep vertical lines between the puppy dog eyes.

Worry!

House smiled in spite of himself, but he was just too tired to pay attention any longer. He sighed deeply and drifted back toward sleep. Remaining lucid right now just didn't seem worth the effort. He had questions. He couldn't remember what they were. No matter.

00000000

Kip Bernoski walked around to the other side of House's bed and checked the numbers on the two strange electronic monitors. He followed the wire leads from the base units to their originating points on the apparatus encircling Gregg's crippled leg, but stopped short of touching the slender wire-like frame that held the limb straight in almost the same manner that a trellis holds a grape vine. Wilson was reminded of wire cones like the ones that kept tomato plants from dragging the ground.

Kip finished his study of House's status and walked across the room to write a series of numbers in a spiral notebook. He looked at his watch for a slow march of seconds, and wrote another series of numbers, then put down the pen, nodded his head and looked over to Wilson. "He's doing well, Jim. The stringers are keeping his pain down, and I think he'll do well on the permanent treatment. I think we should leave and let him rest." He placed the notebook on the counter and walked back toward the bed.

"I need to make the rounds of #2 Lab, and the other hospital suites. You can walk along if you'd like, and we can talk. Of course, you're also welcome to stay here with him … if you'd rather do that … but he's going to be pretty much out of it until morning."

Wilson stole another glance at Gregory House, breathing deeply and looking relaxed and comfortable beside him. He paused for a moment, undecided, but then rose from the bed and walked softly to the center of the room. "He's … actually …not in pain, is he?" He asked.

Kip shook his head. "No. Not now. He's not. He'll be fine overnight. He'll be watched like a hawk by another staff doctor … Bill Bernard … who you'll meet very shortly. Bill will check the stitches and change the bandages on Gregg's hand … and do another treatment on his foot. Actually, Bill is the expert around here when it comes to the type of injury Gregg has done to his foot. It wasn't Gregg's fault … he didn't even know it was happening."

"You're telling me he really has a decubitus ulcer on the bottom of his foot?" Wilson asked. "Like we mentioned awhile ago."

"Yeah," Kip said. "I think they caught it in time to keep it from going deep into the muscle, but it could still be damned serious. His foot must have been in the same position on the footrest of that bike for hours on end. The tissue became compressed, and because of the poor circulation in that leg, there was decreased tissue perfusion, and that resulted in ischemia. It was like an accident just waiting to happen. It's going to take some time to heal. I don't want to put nanocites in there … or in his hand. It would be like swatting a mosquito with a baseball bat. Those little devils are patterned for much larger jobs. So we'll see how the two less serious injuries do on their own."

While the two men talked, the door across the room swung open to admit two other men whom Wilson had not yet met. One of them was a wiry man, stocky and tanned, with salt-n-pepper hair, and wearing aviator-lens glasses. He reminded Wilson of a WWII pilot. He was clad in jeans and western boots, and his left arm ended just below the elbow. In its place, a spidery stainless steel grasping mechanism was attached to what remained of the limb. He brandished it like a sword.

Wilson stared for a moment, and the man returned the stare with a friendly challenge. Then he grinned disarmingly.

James grinned back. Beside him, his taller, thinner companion moved along beside him, close to his right shoulder. This fellow was in his late seventies if he was a day. His hair was silvery white, and lay on his head in almost iridescent waves. His snowy beard and mustache were meticulously trimmed. His eyes were large in his face, and were almost as blue as Gregg's. He wore white scrubs and a tee shirt on his skinny frame, and his feet were clad in sandals.

James thought: _Saint Peter, for cryin' out loud! A gentile warrior! _ He could almost hear, inside his head, at least a half-dozen snarky comments from the mouth of Gregory House.

Kip beckoned the two men further into the room, indicated Wilson at his side, and began to make introductions. "Boys, I want you to meet Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, in Princeton, New Jersey. Dr. Wilson is the friend and colleague of Gregg House.

All three men nodded at each other again.

Kip continued. "Jim … these guys are kind of like Laurel and Hardy. Where you see one, you usually see the other. The gray-haired dude in the denims is Dr. Bill Bernard, best hand-and-foot man in the business, nano-tech expert, computer hacker and lab rat. The old fart with the Santa Claus hairdo is Bartholomew Kirkpatrick, psychologist, psychiatrist, brain bender and all-around Wizard of Oz. Without these two, this place would be up the creek in a heartbeat."

Dr. Bernard rolled his eyes and snorted with derisive laughter. "Yup," he said sarcastically, "reckon the whole place would just go up in smoke without me'n Bart on the job." He held out his right hand and Wilson pumped it firmly.

The older man rolled his eyes with dramatic aplomb and sighed the sigh of someone heavily put upon. "Yeah, Bill," he drawled. "An' you couldn't find yer butt with both hands if I wasn't there watchin' out for ya!" He too held out his hand, causing James to stare again. The outthrust hand was ten-or-so degrees off-center to the spot where Wilson actually stood.

Bart Kirkpatrick was totally blind.

Wilson sidestepped to his left and grabbed hold of the slender fingers. "I'm … really honored to meet you both," he said.

Bart smiled, and his craggy face transformed into a kind, grandfatherly expression that would have charmed birds out of the trees. "Nice recovery, Dr. Wilson," he said with quiet amusement.

Wilson reddened, a little embarrassed. "You had me totally fooled," he admitted.

Bernard shifted his focus to the bed that enfolded Gregory House. He was already at work, moving away to check wires, monitors, write up his own medical updates and make sure House was taken care of. His older colleague, who gauged his proximity by the sound of his voice, followed him closely.

"How's he doing?" Bernard asked Bernoski with narrowed eyes.

"As you can see," Kip replied, "he's out like a light. I think he's gonna take to this procedure like a duck to water."

Bart Kirkpatrick, who had moved close to House's bedside, stood motionless, listening. His soft, blue-veined hands lay curled on Gregg's right shoulder. "This man is 'out', as you say, Kip. "But not 'like a light'. His breathing is too rapid. He's in pain. Probably from the hand and foot wounds. Can we up the morphine drip a couple of milligrams?"

Kip felt, rather than saw, James Wilson go tense beside him. "Of course," he said. "Check it out, will you, Bill?"

Bernard was already moving toward the IVs. He removed a small key from his pocket, unlocked the plastic door on the pump, pushed a few buttons and relocked the door. Kirkpatrick was still bent over the bed. After a pause of about thirty seconds, he straightened. "He's okay now."

James Wilson stiffened beside Kip Bernoski, eyes intent on the changing numbers on the digital readout. When they stabilized, he relaxed. How did the old man know? Was he some kind of psychic? He watched the two men walk away toward the rear counter, a bit puzzled, but choosing not to mention it. Yet.

Kip led the way out of the room and turned right into the corridor. "Those two," he said with respect, "came here as volunteers eight months ago. Bart was in a nursing home … ready to spend the rest of his life in the old rocking chair. One day he heard two nurses talking about Paramar, and what we do here. One of them heard we were looking for a psychologist to help out with some of our trauma cases. Bart called us a day or so later. I went over there to interview him, and we got along right away. A week after that, Neeka and I picked him up … he was packed and waiting for us … and he's been here ever since.

"Bill … Bill was Bart's first client. Bill got mixed up in a hostage situation at a branch bank a few years ago. Three guys robbed the place while he was in there. One of the customers, an older woman, got hysterical … started screaming … and one of the robbers shot her dead. Bill jumped over a counter to see if he could help, and one of the bastards turned an Uzi on him. Took his arm off like it was a dead tree branch. They patched him up at a trauma center … but he was a _doctor_, for God's sake … and he kind of lost it for awhile. Anyhow, he ended up in chronic pain, and nothing his doctors could do for him. He heard about us, got curious and came on over to check us out.

"Now he's a doctor again … and a damned good one. He let us put him under and let the nanoprobes do their jobs. He was the third to have the experimental surgery … and today he's mostly pain free, and a great addition to the staff.

"He and Bart are great buddies. Bart straightened out Bill's head, and Bill became Bart's eyes. We were fortunate all around."

Kip grinned and continued down the corridor.

"C'mon, Jim … let's go mind the store!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

111


	23. Chapter 23

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Three -

"Setting the Woods on Fire"

"You don't really have to come along with me, you know," Kip Bernoski said as the two men paused before the door to Number-Two Lab. "This can wait until tomorrow, and like I said awhile ago, you look almost as bad as Gregg …"

Wilson chuckled deep in his throat and held up a hand. "No," he said. "I'm okay. This is important, and I probably wouldn't sleep anyway. I'd be dreaming about little metal bugs crawling around inside my head all night. I want to see your lab and get at least a basic idea of your operation. House has risked his health to get down here to you, and if it's that vital to him, it's that vital to me."

Kip opened the door and the two of them walked inside. Earl Keirkgaard and Lillian Chan were huddled together in front of a lab table, behind a glass partition, deep in conversation. Both were wearing "clean suits", white paper coveralls with head coverings and facemasks, and were sitting in a cool glass-enclosed booth that gleamed with stainless steel and white porcelain. Behind them, sterile-suited lab technicians scurried about, watching monitors and taking notes.

Wilson stared.

"They're talking to the 'children'," Kip explained. "Absolute sterile conditions are necessary when working with them …"

As they watched, Earl looked up and waved a rubber-gloved hand, and Lillian lifted her chin, nodded and smiled. "What … are they all doing?" Wilson asked.

"They're getting ready for Gregg's procedure," Kip said. "Conditions have to be exactly right, and the nanocites must be programmed precisely."

As Bernoski spoke, Wilson looked around further, astounded and wide-eyed. This was far beyond anything he might have imagined in his wildest dreams, and he felt as though he were being lifted into a realm of total fantasy. Were they on the _Enterprise_ now? And if they were, then when would he meet Nurse Chapel, Dr. M'Benga and Dr. McCoy?

On the other side of the room stood an impressive array of sophisticated machinery. Computer stations, calibrators, data loggers and recorders were everywhere. Pressure flow sensors, transducers and laboratory equipment were crowded into every spare inch of space, along with other strange instruments he could not identify. Against the far wall Wilson recognized an electron microscope, an atomic-force microscope and a scanning-tunneling microscope. He had never worked with the latter two, nor had he ever seen either of them up close. But he knew what they were. Androgynous lab techs hovered like excited hummingbirds.

Wilson shot a wide-eyed question across to Kip Bernoski, and the tall blond man grinned as though some mysterious cat had just been left out of the bag. "This stuff can be a little overwhelming at first, can't it?"

Wilson whistled between his teeth and brought his right hand around to a sore spot at the back of his neck. Rubbing at the knots in the tendons there, he rolled his eyes and stared hard at his host. "Oh ho! That's gotta be the understatement of the year!"

Kip laughed again and turned to point to a large display on the wall near the ceiling that resembled a large television set. Flashing across the screen, and visible from everywhere in the room, a series of numbers and equations scrolled in an endless loop. It looked like the electronic display at the New York Stock Exchange. Wilson recognized some of the symbols as biological in nature, and was more than puzzled about some of the others, which he had never seen before. "What _is_ that?" He asked.

"It's the first part of Gregg's workup. The first thing they entered was his blood type … see? 'B Positive' … along with temp, BP, pulse, respiratory rate … that sort of stuff."

Kip looked at the big screen again, then turned back to Wilson and frowned. "Jim … were you aware that the damage to Gregg's leg is beginning to cause a curvature to his spine?"

Wilson's eyes closed and he dropped his chin to his chest. "No," he said in a small voice. "I wasn't … although I probably should have been. When the pain gets to be more than he can handle, his body has a tendency to cant further to the left, and he leans a lot harder on the cane. Nothing showed up on his last MRI, so it can't be that far advanced. He's had some trouble with the right shoulder because of an old injury to the left one … and he can't use the cane on the left. I guess this best friend hasn't been paying enough attention to the really important stuff …"

"Jim … I already told you … you can't assume responsibility for his whole damned life! Even a best friend needs a little input from _his _best friend … especially when they're both doctors. If he doesn't tell you what's going on with him healthwise, there's nothing much you can do … unless you're a mind reader."

Wilson shook his head. "Damn him!"

Kip Bernoski turned around and started for the door. He waved to Lillian and Earl, and then settled a light touch on James Wilson's opposite shoulder, guiding him in the general direction of the corridor. "Come on," he said. "You're so damn tired you can't think straight. Pretty soon you'll be blaming yourself for everything … including the cut on his hand and the wound on his foot. You need to get to bed. Now! Gregory House will keep until morning."

00000000

James Wilson found everything he'd packed into the SUV except the two old blankets, placed neatly across the big bed. His suitcase, medical bag and laptop were arranged side by side with his windbreaker, which he remembered leaving somewhere in his wake placed neatly on top. Both cell phones and the pill vial were still in the pockets. The bed looked comforting and welcoming, and he sat down heavily, allowing his eyes to travel slowly around the room.

The dresser across from his position caught his attention instantly.

_Oh God!_

He saw the blue backpack first, then the saddlebags from the Repsol, dwarfing and half hiding a little thirteen-inch television. Wilson drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. Hesitating and half leery of what he might find, he pushed up again and trudged across to the dresser. Placed carefully between the blue backpack and the saddlebags, House's leather jacket, muddy riding boots, dirty jeans and other clothing, and the stiff, filth-caked leather gloves were laid out in a pile, each item enclosed in a zip-loc bag. He released the breath he'd been holding and drew another one, sighing deeply.

Beside everything else lay the long, hard, telling presence of the cane!

Wilson stood and looked at all of it for a long interval of motionlessness. It brought to mind strong thoughts that, in a nutshell, this small pile of material possessions was the sum and substance of House's real world; House's essence. It was a numbing thought, and disturbing. Everything else had been left behind in a heartbeat, simply on the outside chance that an unknown, unproven, risky medical experiment might lessen some of House's ever-present, mind-numbing pain. It told Wilson with heart-wrenching finality that his friend had been willing to forego everything he owned or cared about to be set free of this insidious foe that ruled his life, his profession and his mental stability.

Wilson picked up the cane and held it almost reverently in both hands. House was not House anymore without … _ this _…

House _wanted _to be normal. But he was driven. The pain drove him far beyond the point where even his innate, abrasive manner usually reached its limits. It had twisted his level of compassion into an unsympathetic disregard. And it had turned his wry, energetic, passionate personality to the deep corners of the dark side. He struck out viciously when in severe pain, and even the full force of that formidable mind was often powerless to curb it.

Wilson's tired shoulders slumped. So many things here, telling him rudely of the compassionate position he should have taken with House, but didn't. So many things he should have seen happening, but didn't. So many chances to help and be the best friend that he'd always thought he was … not taken. So many warning signs he'd purposely ignored in sullen frustration …

Wilson picked up the blue backpack and carried it across to the bed with him. He sat down and fumbled with the zipper that opened the main compartment. Pulled the flap up. Looked inside. It was a jumbled mess. Not surprising. Everything was damp and sogged up from riding in the open for six hundred miles. He reached inside gingerly with one hand while holding onto it with the other. His fingers closed around a fearful conglomeration of unsurprising associated items: wet napkins from an assortment of fast food places, empty food wrappers and crusts of bread and buns. Sticky candy wrappers, cardboard French fry cartons, empty Mountain Dew cans. Handful after handful of debris came out from the depths of the black interior, and Wilson dumped everything on the bed behind him. All the way at the bottom, he came across a damp envelope with a printout of the JAMA article on Paramar Clinic and the man who ran it, along with a printout of House's initial application for volunteer status.

Wilson unfolded the document carefully and began reading. When he got to the box area at the bottom, where the applicant was asked to state his reasons for wanting to be a volunteer, Wilson began to feel like a voyeur. House's familiar script gave him pause. His friend was baring his soul on a throwaway sheet of 8 X 12 bond paper:

"I am approaching late middle age, and the only thing I can see ahead for myself is

unrelenting physical pain, which is quickly nearing unmanageability by any of

the drugs now on the market. As a doctor myself, I'm looking at a life that

can end only in multiple organ failure, and an early death that will place a burden

on not only my elderly parents, but friends and colleagues as well. If my case

could be used to benefit science, then I would wish for a two-fold purpose: to

come to your facility for treatment of the intractable pain and possible discussion

of same, or any other use I might be in your research."

Wilson slowly folded the paper back again and placed it in the envelope with the other sheet already there. He had invaded House's privacy to an extent that he had never done before. His heart was breaking anew for this incredible man who was his best friend in the world, and for whom he had always held the utmost in respect and admiration. House was infuriating, certainly, but he was also a lonely, brilliant, tortured soul, and now Wilson knew what he had always suspected: there was a patch of warmth hidden deep in the abyss of House's heart where it was _never, ever_ allowed to surface.

Stoically, Wilson replaced the damp envelope in the deep recesses of the backpack and gathered up the rest of the soggy mess and dumped that back inside as well.

Methodically, Wilson unzipped the smaller compartments. In the first one, he found a wet Game Boy that dripped a tiny cascade of water droplets down across the legs of his pants. In the second one, an iPod with its ear-bud wires trailing, and also dripping water, looked more dead than alive. He turned both of them on, but with Murphy's Law in full attendance, both were quite dead!

He wasn't sure exactly what to do at first, but he knew that House loved having access to his iPod for the times when he was fidgety and sore and bored out of his mind. Wilson shook the daylights out of the small player to rid it of excess water, then laid it out on the stand by the bed. Perhaps, in time, it would dry out and be usable again. He put the Game Boy back into the compartment it came out of and zipped it up.

When he finally opened the last zipper compartment, Wilson got the surprise of the week. Inside, securely fastened into the original gift bag, and completely dry, was the bright red silk necktie he had brought to House in rehab after they'd all found out he was going to trial for drug possession. Even the gift tag, inscribed: "Good Luck, Wilson" was there. Torn almost in half, but there.

James felt himself misting up as he put it back in the bag and rezipped the zipper.

_Stop it!_

He took the backpack over to the dresser and put it down in the empty space he'd lifted it from. He was going to go through the saddlebags in the same manner, but then thought better of it. Then he noticed the gloves and the boots. They were placed in such a way that he could see inside them where haphazard strips of duct tape caught his eye.

_What the devil … ?_

He found the money, a bit damp with moisture, but perfectly fine. House must have squirreled it there to keep it safe in the event of foul play, which, thank God, hadn't happened.

The palm of the left glove was saturated with blood that was beginning to stiffen the leather as it dried out. Wilson shook his head sadly. House seemed uncannily able to injure himself without even trying.

His foot was another example. The removal of the huge mass of muscle from House's thigh had compromised the circulation to his lower leg, and consequently his foot. He had traveled on, not feeling the pain until long after the damage was done. Now the ulcer would have to be treated with antibiotics and medical applications and bandages until it healed, which would take a horrifyingly long time. House would not only be unable to walk, but would not even be able to tolerate the pressure of his foot against the floor.

Wheelchair-bound until God knew when, Gregory House would be fit to be tied! Even shackled to a bed, as he was now, his leg pain eradicated by the tiny temporary Nano-electrical repressors, he would still feel the pain of the injured foot, as well as the laceration on his hand. The man couldn't win!

Wilson reached a conclusion.

Shower! He needed to get into a shower, wash off the rest of the "road", change clothing, and then get his butt over there to be by House's side.

Suddenly nothing else mattered more than showing up at the place where he was born to be. He was Tonto to House's Lone Ranger. Robin to House's Batman. Spock to House's Kirk.

Wilson opened his suitcase and pulled out one of the raggedy grey sweat suits he had packed two days ago. Clean socks, clean underwear, and a pair of soft-sole moccasins.

It was time to go where he was ultimately needed …

It was time to … as he'd heard House's Dad say, years before: "Either shit, boy … or get off the pot!"

_I'm going already, Colonel House! Get out of my head!_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

116


	24. Chapter 24

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Four -

"Your Wish is My Command"

WILSON:

The layout of this place reminds me of a military installation. Austere, contiguous, bereft of adornment, flatly utilitarian. House has described the concept to me, usually nuanced with an underlying disdain, many, many times.

I stand under a hot shower for a long relaxing interval, just letting the steamy water wash over me and take away some of the fatigue and muscle and mental tenseness that had claimed me during the long trip south. It feels so good to be fresh and clean again, smell like Irish Spring instead of cooking grease and rancid French fries mingled with my own perspiration. My hair is back to the state that House calls my "moppy look", and smells of Cocoanut Suave shampoo. My clothes, though old, are clean. The bone-deep tiredness has lifted.

I need to relocate my friend … on my own … see him … maybe even touch him … and talk to him, if that's possible …

I walk slowly along a beige corridor. Brown doors line up at intervals on either side. I am noticing details that escaped me before. There are numbers burned into the panels with the letters "R", "H", and "L". I am assuming that they stand for "Residence", "Hospital" and "Laboratory".

I have just left my quarters, labeled "R-12", which I take to mean that there are at least twelve small apartments just like the one assigned to me in the Residence Wing. I turn left and keep walking. Endlessly. It didn't seem this long while I was following Kip Bernoski all over the place while he checked on his staff's projects. I have concluded that he has since retired to his own apartment, (does he live in residence here, or off the grounds somewhere?) for the evening and left me to my own devices. He has given me no restrictions, issued no warnings. It is very quiet all around me at only nine o'clock in the evening, not at all like the busy hubbub in and around PPTH, back home. But this is a private clinic, and I must get used to the differences in ambience.

I walk a little further, and I begin to observe a subtle change that I hadn't taken note of before. The hallway color has changed to mint green, and the doors along the sides are painted hunter green. There are only two doors along here, widely spaced, and I suspect that they are very large rooms, since this is the lab area, and there are other, smaller rooms opening off them, in turn, for specialty purposes. I was in Lab Number Two with Kip, and I noticed other doors there, but was not invited to enter, nor would it have occurred to me to ask. If he wants me to see, he will tell me.

Further down the corridor I come upon an annex to Lab Number Two, and I am more certain than ever that I am right. I hear electronic sounds coming from inside, and the intermittent barking of the big dog I have been introduced to as "Bobby". I'm still not certain of the dog's purpose, or whether he is simply someone's pet … (which I doubt) … or what. I have not asked yet, and they have not offered. They probably never even thought about it, since Bobby just seems to always be here.

Now I pass into the Hospital area, the place of my destination. The corridor is light blue, the doors Navy. I watch the numbers closely, as I am very near the one in which House lies sleeping. Without knowing why, I am very anxious to see him, look at his face and reassure myself that he is indeed okay.

"H-Number One."

I am here. I was here before, but somehow it looks different with the evening lights turned on all along the low ceilings and the long corridors.

The door is ajar, just as it was earlier.

I stand at the threshold, peering in …

And I see the two doctors, the ones I was introduced to before, standing by the bed and looking down. One of them is chuckling softly: Bartholomew Kirkpatrick, the blind psychiatrist, the Saint Peter Double. Close by his side, Bill Bernard, the orthopedic surgeon, has a smile on his face, parrying his gaze from the bed, back to Bart. I get the notion that House might be awake, and I don't know why, but that thought fills me with a sense of relief that nearly overwhelms me.

I take my hand away from the doorjamb and walk slowly across to join them, heart in my throat and my head filling with jumbled thoughts that, if I try to articulate any of them, I'll sound like someone who has lost control of his tongue … and his brain!

Bill and Bart know I'm here. I see Bill reach over and touch Bart's sleeve, and they part to let me through. I voice my appreciation and look at the man on the bed.

House _is_ awake. He is no longer lying flat on his back, but is propped up on a pile of pillows. A small food tray sits where he can reach it with his right hand, the one with the IV in it. His left hand is cushioned on a pillow also. It is heavily bandaged and padded, to the point that it is not possible for him to flex his fingers. I hurt for him, but I dare not let him know. I see remnants of a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, a couple of carrot sticks, and a half glass of what looks like whole milk.

_Milk??_

He looks up at my approach, chewing leisurely, and his face takes on that long-suffering expression he has turned upon me so often. He swallows. Blinks. "I've been wondering when you'd give up trying to sleep and come back over here …" His expression changes to one of snarky expectation.

I roll my eyes and smile. He is expecting that too. "_Hey_, House …" I say very softly.

"_Hey_, Wilson …"

From the corner of my eye, I see Bart nudge Bill in the ribs and whisper something to him. The two men walk slowly away to the other end of the room and I see Bart settle down at a small table with a cup of what I assume is coffee. Bill, meanwhile, goes behind a small counter, and I can hear him rattling jars, or some other kind of glass containers. It doesn't matter. They have left House and me alone on purpose so we can talk.

There is a stool near the end of the bed, and I lean over to pull it closer. I see House's bare foot resting on still another pillow, below the chicken-mesh-looking apparatus on his leg, and I look closely at both for a moment.

They have removed the bandages from his foot since I was here last. I can see that the ulcer is located on the inside surface of his arch, along the ridge of the plantar fascia that connects that area of his foot to his heel; the exact place where his boot must have been hooked on the peg at the Repsol's drive wheel. The injury is swollen and turning purplish black, and I know it will soon erupt through the surface and cause all kinds of trouble. I have a feeling he has been unable to tolerate even the slight pressure of the gauze against the abused skin.

_Christ, House!_

I wince in spite of myself, and I know he's seen it. I perch on the stool and look into his face. For once I see only questions. He's wondering if I will lash out at him; accuse him of causing more injury to his already too-abused body. But I can only look and feel sorrow and compassion and sympathy … all those emotions he hates and continually runs away from.

"Hurt?" I ask, because there is nothing else I can think of to say.

His eyes lower, and I see him push away the tray with the skimpy supper remains on it. "Not so much," he finally says, and I wonder whether or not to believe him …

"Everybody lies …" 

"Can I get you anything?"

"Nah," he says, but it's not very convincing.

I continue to look at him and watch his eyes flit about like a wild bird at a bird feeder: apprehensive, suspicious, wary. Frightened? He still does not trust me. I can't say I blame him …

"What _is_ that chicken-wire thingie doing to help your leg … exactly?" I ask suddenly.

I see his consternation finally waning, his mind switching gears, dropping barriers, and I think we might be okay again … if we can talk. I also see the repressed feelings flee the blue eyes, leaving them bright and clear again, and his breathing seems to even out. Maybe I have asked the right question at the right time.

"The pain in my leg is gone." His answer is uncomplicated, simple. Truth at last.

"Thank God. Maybe the permanent nanocites thingie will work. And your hand?"

He held it up, looked at it. Shrugged. "Better."

"Good. And the foot?"

"That one I'll have to work through, I guess."

"I'm sorry. Wish you would have told me before that you have reduced sensation in that foot …"

"Nothing you could have done. My own fault. I'll get through it. Just another freakin' boulder to push uphill."

"Jesus, House!"

"Wilson, I'm fine! So … what made you follow me all the way down the damn highway in the fancy-schmancy Cadillac?"

"You had the car pegged, huh? I wondered about that … I called your cell phone from inside your apartment and got serenaded by The Who! You forgot to turn it off …"

"I didn't forget."

"You did it on purpose?"

"Yeah."

"The thought did occur to me …"

"It worked, didn't it? And you found the JAMA article in my files?"

"You planted that too?"

"Wasn't it obvious? Brand new fresh file, just for you. You're a predictable little fuck, you know that, Wilson? Paybacks are hell! By the way, have you still got my damn cell phone?"

"In my quarters. In my windbreaker. It's dead as a doornail."

"Your 'quarters'?"

"There are apartments … at the other end of this wing. I'm staying in one of them as long as you're here."

"Oh joy! That really makes my heart sing."

"Turns you on, huh?"

"Oh yeah. Where's my bike?"

"I would suppose that they put it away in one of the garages … in back."

"Okay. Does Cuddy know what the hell's going on?"

"She knew I was chasing you down, but I haven't had a chance to tell her we got here. Not yet, anyway."

"You gonna tell her?"

"Well yeah … sure. She's our boss and she deserves to know what's going on."

"Figured you'd say that." He sighed, fidgeted with the injured hand on the pillow.

Grimaced.

I knew it hurt him, but he didn't bitch at me about it, and I decided not to ask. From

now on, the medical decisions were all his! "House? What did you do with Steve McQueen?"

"The rat?" His face registered surprise. We were talking about everything but the important stuff. "Left him go. He was the last connection to Stacy … and she's gone. I figured he deserved the same freedom …"

"_Where_ did you leave him go? It's winter!"

"I put him in the dumb waiter to the basement … along with a bag of pellets. He can find his way out if he wants … or stay inside til it gets warmer. I gave him the option to do whatever works for him. Getting' old anyhow … rats don't live that long. Guess I kinda put him out to pasture … like me."

I ignored that last. Did he mean it? Or was it a little self-pity?

"Oh. Well, at least you didn't put 'im down the plumbing! By the way … they left all the stuff from your bike in my room. Clothes, backpack, saddlebags. Your clothes and boots and gloves are all ruined. Can I toss them? The left glove is turning stiff with blood. I found the cash you kept stashed under the duct tape, and I put it in your backpack with your drowned Game Boy. Your iPod is drying out on my bed stand. There's a lot of wet crap in the backpack. Shall I clean it out for you?"

"Yeah, and yeah … if you want to. But don't throw my red necktie away." A smirk.

"What red necktie?" I'm playing the game by pretending to be surprised.

"Like you didn't know …"

I sigh out loud as I look over at him. I'm feeling better now, and Greg is lying there in that bed looking almost comfortable … a state I haven't seen him in for any length of time in … oh God … years!

"What can you actually tell me about that contraption they put on your leg?"

He doesn't have a chance to answer. Bart and Bill are approaching with a three-tiered cocktail cart loaded with sandwiches, fruit, potato chips, bottled ice water, and a small coffee urn that's giving off a heavenly aroma. There are four coffee cups the size of hogsheads arranged pleasingly on the top shelf beside it, along with cream, sugar, and even a small glass with an array of cinnamon sticks. It smells so damn good, and I think those two doctors are well aware that my belly thinks my throat's been cut.

From the bed, I hear a small chuckle, and turn on my heel to stare. Gregory House has a smile on his face … _a smile! _… in front of me and the whole world… and I am so flabbergasted that I'm ready to pass out right there on the spot.

What wonders the simple cessation of pain can do!

Bill Bernard busies himself setting up a plate of goodies for me, and pouring four cups of that great-smelling fresh coffee. I watch him, almost drooling. I wasn't aware until this moment that I am ravenous!

He extends a cup to House, who takes it right-handed, letting the IV line hang over the side of the bed. His head is propped up enough that he should be able to handle it by himself.

In the meantime, Bart is seating himself on another stool. He turns his snowy head in the direction of House and me, and I know he is addressing me rather than House. "I heard you ask Gregg about the apparatus on his leg. I may be able to tell you both something about the nanotechnology breakthroughs we've been experiencing in pain control, Dr. Wilson. You may find it enlightening … or it may drive you absolutely crazy with a million questions … to which none of us probably have the answers. Would you like to hear some of the things we've found that have worked for us?"

"Very much." I tell him. I enunciate clearly and speak directly to him.

Bart smiles. "I'm _blind_," he reminds me teasingly. "Not deaf."

I color three shades of pink. "Uh … sorry …" and I hear another snicker from the bed.

Bart goes on with his story, and I suddenly get the feeling I'm about to hear a lot more than I really want … or need … to hear. But I listen intently anyway. I take a big bite of chicken sandwich and chew industriously. It is delicious! And the coffee … wonderful!

I am thinking: I'm here at last, and Gregory House is close by my side … and he is safe and sound (well almost). And he may even forgive me for being such an ass. It's the best of all possible worlds.

"The use of nanotechnology," Bart is saying, "goes back to 1959. A physicist named Feynman wrote an article called "Plenty of Room at the Bottom" and delivered it at Caltech. It outlined a method of manipulating individual atoms and molecules at the subatomic level and incorporating them on a scale smaller than a micrometer. Soon, we learned to fabricate devices on the same scale … so it's part colloidal science, part chemistry, part applied physics and part biology.

"These tiny components assemble themselves chemically, using principles of molecular recognition. Or … nano-objects are constructed from larger entities without atomic level control.

"Actually, nanotechnology is an umbrella term used to describe a variety of techniques to fabricate materials and devices on the nanoscale. Paramar technicians use biomedical engineering in our laboratories under strictly controlled conditions: Sterile environment, cool to cold, lo-temp labs. We're funded by the National Science Foundation, and we're closely monitored by both the Government and privately funded institutions whose interests are medical in nature and sweeping in scope. If we make one wrong move, they let us know.

"Dr. Wilson, perhaps you've seen Earl Keirkgaard and Lillian Chan at work. They are using biological molecular machines controlled from a desktop, with changing voltage, nanotube, nanomotor, molecular actuator, and a nanoelectro mechanical relaxation oscillator. They manipulate nanoprobes, which then attach themselves to tissue particles in the body and emit a magnetic field. In Gregg's case, these probes will seek out the damaged nerve endings in his crippled leg and literally fool them back into a return to normal function. They can't repair the missing muscle, but they can take away his pain.

"When this has been accomplished, the probes will emit color coded messages which can be seen on the desktop, and then directed to the exact locations where they will attach to the injured nerve endings and keep them from transmitting pain signals to Gregg's brain.

"This method has worked for Kip Bernoski, Earl Keirkgaard and for Bill Bernard over here. There is no logical reason why they would not also work for Gregg.

"And there you have it. The temporary nano-electrical wiring now hooked into his leg does approximately the same job … except that the probes are only quieting the electrical impulses while we work on the technical aspects of his upcoming procedure. In a very short time, he will be removed from this 'chicken-wire' getup and be injected with a permanent nanoprobes network.

"If you have ever seen the Star Trek episode, 'Is There, In Truth, No Beauty?' … the sensor net which allowed the blind doctor, Miranda Jones, to 'see' … worked on the same general principles as these nanocites that will find a permanent place in Gregg's central nervous system. So, you see, gentlemen, life imitates fantasy!"

I am finishing my second sandwich, scarfing down the second handful of chips, and am now draining my second cup of this fantastic coffee. Of course I'd seen that famous old Star Trek episode! Diana Muldaur at her sexiest!

I am impressed. Perplexed and flummoxed, perhaps, but impressed.

I look across to House and see that his injured hand is resting across the top of his face, blocking the light from his eyes.

"House?"

He lifts the arm and scowls at me. The glitter in his eyes is pained.

I throw a warning glance at Bill Bernard, who catches its significance immediately. He walks around the bed, checking things out. When he sees House's wounded foot, he finds that the ulcer has indeed broken through the skin and is beginning to drain.

They treat the wound immediately with antibiotics and inject a vial of Lidocaine directly below the anklebone. They do not admonish him for not telling them. Then they apply fresh bandages. House melts and relaxes. He looks at me angrily, but the anger is not directed at me. He is more than fed up with pain and all its minions.

Bill and Bart are now beginning to roll the cocktail cart back across the room. I walk over and stop them. I thank Bart for his informative commentary on the use of nanocites, and he nods in return.

Then he touches my arm. "Go back over to Gregg now, son," he tells me gently. "Your presence here has made all the difference to him. Go now. He needs you."

Again, I am flummoxed. House? _Needs_ me? Needs _me?_

I thank him … thank them both … turn around and walk slowly back to the bed.

In the corner I find an upholstered chair and pull it close to his side. I sit down and turn my face to him. He is watching me. The blue eyes are huge. He says nothing, but his gaze never leaves my face. I smile, and his eyes sparkle. He does not trust himself to speak, but I don't mind. I lean my upper body across the surface of the bed toward him. I hold out my hands in a silent invitation.

Slowly he stretches out the injured left hand, entrusting it to the warmth of my fingers cupping gently around it.

After awhile, he sleeps again.

After awhile, knowing I am exactly where I belong … I do too.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

126


	25. Chapter 25

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Five -

"In the Gloaming"

James Wilson awakened slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes. The muscles across his shoulders and down his back protested painfully, and an involuntary grunt escaped his lips. He was still cradling House's bandaged hand within his own, and he placed it back on the pillow before pushing himself up straighter. The room's lights were turned low; the only sound a faint murmur from the ventilation system. Wilson rotated his shoulders and moved his head back and forth in an effort to loosen some of the stiffness. A quick glance at his watch told him it was close to 2:00 a.m. If Bill and Bart were still in the room, he didn't see them.

Directly across from him on the bed, blue eyes deep in shadow rested softly on his face, but there was less than softness in the tone of Gregg's voice. "That'll teach ya! Why the hell don't you go and get some decent sleep? If you don't, you're gonna be grumpy and sore all day tomorrow."

Wilson propped his elbow on the edge of the bed and supported his chin with the heel of his hand. "It _is _tomorrow!" He said sleepily. "I didn't mean to wake you …"

House cut him off. "Wasn't sleeping."

"Not at all?"

"Nope."

"Why? Are you in pain? Do you need something … ?"

"Wilson …"

"Huh? What?"

"I'm not in pain! Trying to sleep with you snoring in my ear is like trying to sleep under the hood of a Model-T Ford!"

"I … oh!" Wilson sat up and leaned back in the chair. "Sorry."

"Not your fault. Your ass is draggin', and I want you to go back to wherever your damn room is and _go to bed!_ I'm fine. Bill is back there sacked out on the couch. Nothin's gonna happen for awhile … and I'll still be here when you get back." House made his point with a stern, but not unkind voice, and Wilson watched his eyes for signs of deceit.

He found none.

He pushed himself further upright and made to rise. "If you're sure … ?'

"Wilson. I'm sure. Go get some sleep."

James sighed. "Okay …" He pushed the chair back to its place against the wall, then looked across to his friend one last time, as though for his own reassurance. "Goodnight, House."

"G'nite, Wilson."

Retracing his steps down the corridor to the other end of the building, Wilson thought about House's options.

Tomorrow … or to be more accurate, later today … they would take House's leg out of the strange contraption in which it had been encased for, by then, close to twenty-four hours. And then what? He assumed that there would be an interval of waiting until it became known whether the pain would come back, and how soon, and how severe. Kip Bernoski had not said it would, but neither did he say it would not.

House was, after all, a willing guinea pig. He had signed his name on the dotted line and ridden 600 agonizing miles on the outside chance that he might finally be free from so many years of constant pain. Might he actually be shed of the mind-draining torment that had held him prisoner? Would he even remember what it had been like to have once been "normal"?

Even the distant thought of such a miracle caused Wilson to mist up when he pictured his best friend with a real smile on his face. It would be so good to see the classic features relaxed and not drawn with suffering that never relented.

Wilson wished he'd had the presence of mind to ask questions of Kip Bernoski and find out as much as he could about the impending procedure. He could also have asked Bart last night while the man was explaining the principles of nanotechnology and the methods they would use to release the nanocites into Gregg's nervous system.

What could House expect in terms of the easing of his pain and the future function of the leg? Kip said he would probably still need the cane, and perhaps even crutches for a time as his body adjusted to the differences in strength and mobility. But would the limb actually strengthen? Or might it weaken even more, making it impossible for it to bear his weight? If it would not bear weight, would Gregg deem the sacrifice worth the cessation of the pain?

Gregory House had some difficult life-decisions facing him. Wilson wondered whether the man, for all his great strength in the face of impossible odds, would bear up as well under the strain of being "patient of the week" when the differential diagnosis had his own name on it.

Wilson keyed the lock and walked into his quarters without turning on the light. A glow from the arc lights in the parking lot threw the shadows in the room into bas-relief against the opposite wall. He set the plastic bags of House's ruined clothing, and the rest of the accumulated debris on the floor.

As an afterthought, he removed the red necktie from the pocket of the backpack. He removed it from its dilapidated gift bag, and, gift tag still clinging, hung it carefully from the top of the dresser's mirror.

He toed off the moccasins and dropped onto the counterpane fully dressed. Thoughts of his friend still tumbled around and around in his mind.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow …

00000000

Gregg was restless.

He hadn't been totally truthful with Wilson awhile ago. The truthful part was that his crippled leg was, indeed, free of pain. The lie had to do with his state of mind. He was scared out of his wits, and beleagured with "what-ifs".

What if the pain in his leg came back immediately? What if the nanocites ran rampant through his nervous system and destroyed more tissue than they were programmed to destroy? What if he found that, even though the pain was gone after the final surgery, he still could not bear weight on the leg? And what if this experiment turned out to be all for nothing, and his heart stopped and he just up and died? Bought the farm. Croaked …

Any of those things were possible, and not one item on the list of nagging worries could he bring himself to mention to Wilson. What would it do to Wilson if Wilson had to accompany his lifeless body back to Princeton, New Jersey, and then have to be there to explain his friend's death to Blythe and the Colonel? What then? It would kill Wilson. It would _kill_ him!

Did his dark thoughts qualify as self-pity? He feared that they did. Not something the counselors back in rehab would have condoned. They might have suggested that he consult his Higher Power.

_Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him …_

Yeah. Right!

Gregg closed his eyes and pursed his lips to keep from making a cowardly mewling sound in the quiet room. He could do that at home when he was in agony and alone. But not here. He held his breath as long as he could hold it, then let it escape in a wracking shudder that rocked his entire body. The decubitus ulcer on his foot began to throb, and the sudden severity of it hit him with an impact that caused him to sob with a sense of ironic dark humor. With one pain gone, another one arose quickly to take its place.

_Fuck!_

His eyes stung with unshed tears. He forgot himself for a moment and clenched his fists at his sides. Both fists! The stitches that closed the laceration in his left hand dug like an ice pick, and he cried out quietly.

"Fuck … fuck …. Fuckfuckfuckfuck …."

"Hey man … calm down. What's wrong? Foot?"

Gregg inhaled a startled breath and jerked his head quickly to the right. Bill Bernard stood at the head of his bed looking down.

Humiliated and ashamed of his lack of composure, Gregg turned his head just as quickly in the opposite direction. "Go-the-fuck away!" He snarled. The pain was getting worse.

Bill was reaching for his right elbow.

"For the pain, man," Bill was saying. He found the vein, jabbed the needle, and in twenty seconds House wilted.

He lay panting, recovering, trying to even out his breathing. He was impressed by Bernard's artificial hand, doing all the busy work that a normal hand usually did. He looked up and met the compassionate dark eyes. "Sorry. Thanks."

Bill shrugged. "That'll take the edge off, Gregg," he said. "You a little worried?"

"Uh … yeah. Guess so. Didn't know I was such a wuss …"

"You're not! But you've allowed your pain to define you way too long. Now you're finding out that it really _is_ okay to be scared. It doesn't diminish you as a man one damn bit." Bernard smiled, stepped back and placed the spent syringe on the bedside table.

There were vials of antibiotics and sterile dressings also on the table. Bernard chose among them as he spoke in a soothing tone to calm House after the trauma of the sudden onset of pain. "I need you to lie very still, Gregg," he said. "The ulcer on your foot is open now, and draining … and it's necessary that we keep it flushed so it doesn't go septic. You'll probably feel some pressure when I change the dressings and clean it … but you're a doctor; you know all this. I'm just reminding you …"

House knew what the man was doing, and he appreciated the diversion. Even with the calming injection, the site was painful, and he knew what was coming. He took a deep breath and forced his body to relax. Bernard's hands, the real one and the artificial one, were exquisitely tender, and the agony was excruciating, but momentary. He rode it out better than he thought he would.

Bill followed the antibiotics with a thick gauze pad smeared with salve that was not only cooling to the touch, but numbing over the area that touched the wound. Bernard wound gauze bandage in a figure eight around Gregg's foot and ankle and anchored it with adhesive tape. "That should do you for the rest of the night. When we take you out of the stringers tomorrow, you may be able to get up in a wheelchair."

"Why a wheelchair?" Gregg asked. "God, I hate those things!"

"You can't try to walk on your foot, and we need to see how long it takes for your pain to come back. _If_ it comes back right away, or if it holds off awhile … and how long the process takes. All of it helps gauge how many of the nanocites we insert. It's a little complicated. You knew the stringers were only temporary, right?"

"Yeah. But why?" Gregg was interested now, and distracted by the opportunity to find out something new. There was a puzzle to be solved, and he was intrigued.

"The purpose of the spikes and stringers is to determine the strength and quantity … bulk … mass … number … whatever you choose to call it … of nanocites we inject into the areas where the spikes were inserted into the muscle of your leg. The insertion points will become the ports from which the little buggers work their way toward the damaged nerves and block off the impulses that cause your worst pain."

Bill Bernard held the four fingers of his biological hand straight up and cupped to resemble the nest of a Baltimore Oriole. With the prongs of the metal hand, he indicated the bottom of the cup and pointed to the fingers one at a time. "The nanocites will be inserted into the wounds made by the spikes and represented by my fingers," he said.

"They will go in and set themselves in a circle at the bottom of the cup. Lillian Chan will be controlling the number and volume from the computers. When the nanocites start to reproduce, they'll move into the nerve fibers and begin their work. At that time, you'll be closely monitored by Kip and me. The pain, at that time, will probably spike for a moment. We don't want you going into cardiac arrest or anaphylactic shock. We'll be right here keeping a close watch on your blood pressure; we'll be ready to flush out your system and to administer epinephrine if necessary."

Bill paused. House's face was dark.

The deep voice came out as a harsh growl. "I'd suggest you pull Wilson in here if you're gonna do that. If you don't, you're gonna have more than one heart attack on your hands." Gregg was only half joking.

Bill Bernard stared down at him, then rested a hand for a moment on his shoulder. "We couldn't do without him, Gregg. We haven't spoken with him about it yet. We knew how exhausted you both were after that 600-mile trek in crappy weather. But when he's fresh and rested in the morning, we'll fill him in on the procedure, and he'll be as much a part of it as you want him to be. He did, after all, care enough to follow you all the way down here. That took a certain amount of devotion … or whatever you want to call it."

Gregg nodded and smiled for an instant. "I wouldn't argue with you about that …"

Bernard grinned. He busied himself about the bed, straightening sheets and blankets, checking the stringers and bedside monitors and straightening House's pillows. He slid a pillow beneath the bandaged foot and covered it with a light blanket. He pulled a second blanket up over House's body and placed the injured hand onto the third pillow.

Lastly, he changed the bag on House's Foley and checked it for leaks. He was very thorough, Gregg noticed. "Guess I'm supposed to go to bed like a good kid now," he remarked sarcastically.

Bill nodded. "Yup. You go to sleep so _I_ can go to sleep. _Fershtay?"_

Gregg scowled. "Huh?"

Bill grinned. "Pennsylvania Dutch," he said. "I'm from Dutch Country … Lancaster, PA. I just asked you if you understood."

House allowed himself to smile. "Guess so. So go get some sleep. Sounds like it's gonna be an interesting day tomorrow … or today … whatever the hell …"

"I'm gonna! G'nite, Gregg."

"'Nite, Bill. Thanks."

"Back at'cha!"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

131


	26. Chapter 26

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Six -

"Busy-Busy-Busy"

It did not take long for the warm tendrils of sleep to close over Gregg House and enfold him in a cocoon of quiet comfort. The grueling motorcycle ride had finally caught up with him, but its miles and miles of lousy weather and nerve-wracking pain had done at least one good thing: it had delivered him into the care of some rare people who actually gave a damn. Difficult to find these days without an accompanying outstretched hand seeking monetary compensation. Nothing with the label: "absolutely free" ever _was_ anymore, he'd found. And CBS didn't _really_ care!

Dr. Bill Bernard, after watching with amusement Gregory House's losing attempts to remain awake, had simply melted back into the shadows of the large room. Morning would come soon enough, and the fast-approaching day promised to be a busy one. He folded himself into the cot in the corner, pulled a blanket across his shoulders and slept immediately with the ease of one who was used to abrupt awakenings.

00000000

Bartholomew Kirkpatrick left his quarters a short distance down the hall and made his way to the room where Gregg House still slept. It was six o'clock Monday morning, and he had overslept by almost an hour. He must speak with Gregg and further prepare him for the things he would be experiencing today in preparation for the procedure on his leg, and Bart was already lagging behind.

Gregory House opened his eyes to bright sunlight pouring into the room from wide-open vertical blinds at every window. He looked around, wondering what time it was, and whether he had slept away half the day here in this comfortable bed in this warm room, cushioned with soft pillows and fragrant sheets and a ventilation system that had practically lulled him to sleep the night before …

To his immediate right, an immaculate image of Saint Peter, for God's sake, caused him to swallow convulsively. For a second he thought he had died and gone to … wherever that place was … the place with the Pearly Gates … that housed the righteous and the meek in the afterlife …

Beside the bed, Bart Kirkpatrick smiled a beatific smile, his gaze slightly above Gregg's body and to the left. He was well aware of the image he exuded with his snow-white hair and beard and his carefully chosen attire of immaculate white scrubs. "Good morning, Dr. House," he began with a soft voice and a soft expression and a hint of humor.

Gregg glared at him; putting on a layer of "gruff" in compensation for being startled out of his wits and realizing he was being "watched" by a blind man. "Where the hell did _you_ come from? Scotty beam you down? You sneak around like the CIA!"

Bart chuckled softly, a little Santa Clausy, but toned down. "Compensation, you might say, for the one sense I lack. I do tend to make up for it in other ways."

House pulled a face; already knowing the action was useless. "So I noticed," he grumbled. "What time is it? I suppose you have a clock imprinted in your brain …"

"No, not really … that would be Mr. Spock … but I do have a watch with a chime. The last time it spoke to me, it was six a.m."

"Damn bright outside for six a.m."

"This is North Carolina … but actually, I wouldn't know."

"What's going on that I need to know about at this time of morning?"

"Oh, a few things. Breakfast will be here in about a half hour, and Neeka will be in to give you your bath …"

"What?"

"Bath. Bathe. Wash off the stink. Sponge your face and neck, ream out your armpits …

You know … make you presentable for polite society."

"That woman? … is gonna give me … a sponge bath?"

Bart smiled, obviously enjoying himself. "Uh huh. You don't have any objections, do you?'

"Hell yes!"

"Relax, Doctor. She will not touch you anywhere you don't wish to be touched …"

"Nowhere! Get it? Nowhere!"

Bart's smile only widened, much to Gregg's consternation. He shrugged. "Okay … suit yourself."

"You were bullshitting me!" House accused.

"Uh huh. Bullshitting the bullshitter. Kind of fits both of us in a strange kind of way, wouldn't you say? Which begs the next question … may _I_ touch you?"

"What?"

"I will not touch you intimately. Nothing of the sort. But I have been endowed with an extraordinary sense. I need to touch your leg … your hand … and probably your foot. I will not hurt you, and I promise to be very careful. But I won't do it without your permission.

"You see, there have been times when I have been able to discover alternate pathways through the body; routes which pass through the muscular and nervous systems that can be utilized by the nanocites in reaching areas of dysfunction and pain. Ways I can help you that conventional methods do not find. With your permission, I'd like to try.

"And then I'd like to touch your face … take a look at you and get to know you. All I have right now is the sound of your voice … and I get the impression that you're somewhat of a grump."

"Me? No way. I'm so sweet; butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. And you, old man, lie like a stack of rugs."

"Talk about _bullshit_ …" Bart's words were so soft that Gregg had to strain to hear them.

"You're actually trying to tell me that you do hocus-pocus … mumbo-jumbo … the Vulcan mind-meld?"

"Whatever floats your boat, son. The Vulcan mind-meld does have a distinctive ring to it, don't you think? I seem to remember Mr. Spock's long, sensitive fingers, reaching deep into someone's mind, drawing forth information that his Captain needed …"

"Dr. Kirkpatrick," House said sarcastically, "I've heard a lot of bullshitters in my day, even met a few … but you beat 'em all. 'Course, it takes one to know one."

"Then I have your permission … bullshitter to bullshitter?"

House tilted his head to the side and studied the bright, sightless blue eyes looking somewhere just beyond the top of his head. "Yeah … go ahead. But watch it!"

"That would be difficult," Bart snarked back. "But thank you. I shall 'watch it' in the only manner of which I am capable …"

They both laughed and the tension was broken.

"Let me have your hand," Bart began. "The one with the laceration. I need to remove the bandage, examine the stitches." He was already reaching into a pocket, removing a pair of rubber gloves, feeling out their contours, drawing them on one at a time.

House watched him, eyes full of skepticism, fighting an urge to be impressed by the blind man's dexterity. He lifted his bandaged hand, held it up where Kirkpatrick could reach.

Bart's fingers were sure and gentle. Carefully he unwrapped the gauze until Gregg's hand lay bare. The cut was stitched beautifully, two inches or so wide, but the stitches were light and delicate in an artistic weave. The metal had gone deep into the heel of his hand.

He winced in spite of himself. Bart's fingers were barely touching the injury, his soft grasp cradling House's wrist between both palms. "This is doing well," he said. "The healing process is getting underway. It might be a good idea to leave the bandage off for now … let it breathe. Does it hurt you?"

House shook his head at first, and then realized how useless the motion had been. He frowned and then said, "No. Doesn't hurt … except when I press on it. So I don't press on it."

Bart smiled. "That makes a certain amount of sense, I guess." He placed Gregg's hand gently back on the pillow, and Gregg moved it closer to the center, looking at the stitches for the first time, the diagnostician in him evaluating the skill of whoever had done the work.

_Not bad …_

Bart moved down to House's leg. Slowly he removed the blanket that covered the spikes-and-stringers apparatus.

Gregg tensed. He was so used to pain that the reaction was a natural reflex.

"Relax, Gregg. Let your body go limp if you can. I know this is difficult for you,

but I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to place my hands on either side of your thigh, nowhere near the scar or the area where the stringers enter the flesh. My hands may seem a little cool on your skin, but that's normal. I'm looking … that's a relative term, you know … _looking_ … for any sign of fever … any indication that your system might possibly be trying to reject the probes. But I'm getting nothing significant. I can feel the tiny nerve reflexes that are still occurring just under the skin, and I'm guessing that those are normal for the amount of trauma your leg underwent at the time of the infarction. Have they have been an ongoing phenomenon since then?"

Gregg gasped, still tense and expecting pain, although his mind told him it was not there.

"Yeah," he said stiffly. "Sometimes they're accompanied by muscle spasms severe enough that I have to hide from the whole damn world until they ease off. They always make me a little … irritable …"

"I can understand why," Bart told him sympathetically. "No damn wonder you're a grump!"

Gregg snorted with sarcastic laughter and searched the old man's kind face. He found no patronizing attitude in Bart's words. The blind man was simply stating facts, making a half-assed joke.

Gregg continued bitterly. "It's a hell of a way to live day after day … never knowing if your body's going to fuck you over and throw you on your ass. Or drain half the life out of you even before you get out of bed in the morning."

Bart straightened. "I understand," he said. "I'll never know exactly how much pain this has caused you over the years, because I haven't experienced it myself. I do understand the frustration and the anger and the unfairness of having the best part of your life ripped out from under you. I understand that completely, son, and trust me … we will all do our best to see to it that this never happens to you again. I'm not telling you that you'll be able to walk normally again. That's out of the question with this amount of damage … but you shouldn't have to double up in pain every time you move …"

The old man's blue eyes were brimming, and Gregg was at a loss how to say "thank you" and get his meaning across fully. He reached up instead, grasped Bart's hand. He clasped onto the fingers and held tight for a moment before letting go.

James Wilson walked through the door while Bart was gently removing the bandages from Gregg's wounded foot. It was almost 6:30 a.m. "Good morning," he said, and they nodded to him in return. Bart was still unwrapping the bandages.

"Is something going on with House's foot?" He asked. "Have you found an infection?"

Wilson's eyes were dark and worried as he watched a blind man unraveling gauze bandage, and not offering an immediate answer to his questions. Then the injury was laid bare and Bart's hands were cupping very gently on either side of Gregg's ankle, the heels of his hands meeting just above the sole of the foot.

Wilson frowned. "What are you doing?" He asked.

Bart did not move from his position, but raised his sightless eyes to gaze in Wilson's general direction, missing the mark by only a few inches. "Guess you might call it 'the laying on of hands'," he said. "But you're right, Dr. Wilson. The skin is a little too warm, and there is swelling present. He has an infection starting. Could you please go back behind the counter and bring a syringe of Lidocaine. We're going to have to flush out the wound before it goes any further. Need the little pump with the rubber bulb on it, and saline solution. Add a broad-spectrum antibiotic while you're back there. You know what we need." He still held Gregg's wounded foot between both hands, while House lay white-faced and silent in the bed.

Wilson hurried to comply.

They injected the anesthetic just below the anklebone and waited for it to take effect. The flush took upwards of ten minutes before they were satisfied that it had the correct amount of cleansing necessary to combat the onset of infection.

Wilson dumped the basin of solution into the biohazard drain, cleaned the equipment and set it to sterilize, then returned to House and Kirkpatrick at the bed. "How is he? Hey!

House?"

"Relax, Jimmy. Things are perkin'. I'm fine."

Wilson turned to Bart and cocked an eyebrow, making the same mistake House had made. A cocked eyebrow meant nothing to a blind man. Chiding himself for the error, Wilson turned to Bart and said, "Thank you."

Bart smiled. "Happy to oblige. I'm also happy that you showed up when you did. He'll be okay now."

"Hey!" House growled. "I'm here. Quit talking around me! Who says I'm okay? You two just tried to scrape the hide off my goddamn foot. It _hurts!"_

"No it doesn't," Bart said calmly. "You won't feel anything at all for another forty-five minutes or so. After that you can get as bitchy as you want." The old doctor made his way back to the head of House's bed and removed his rubber gloves, one at a time. He threw them in the waste container and placed a hand on House's shoulder. "I'm sorry the problem with your foot ruined the touching … but it was fortunate we caught it in time, before it could get worse."

Bart turned and aimed his body toward the doorway. "I'll be back in a few hours … probably about the time when Kip and Earl are ready to take you off the stringers. Right now I think your breakfast is on the way … and it's time for two old friends to spend some time together. See you later, eh?"

"Thanks, Bart," two voices echoed from the area of the bed.

"Oh, by the way … Gregg … I'll take a look at your ugly face sometime before the end of the day." An immaculate white hand rose into the air and waved, and "Saint Peter" walked calmly out of the room.

Wilson turned to House with a frown of deep puzzlement. "What the hell did he mean by that?"

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	27. Chapter 27

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Seven -

"Turn Me Loose"

Bobby, the white German Shepherd, stood halfway in and halfway out of the doorway. His graceful body trembled with excitement, his long pink tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth, and his dark eyes were bright with anticipation.

He was about to bark.

Earl eyed the dog with an odd expression of forbearance and hefted himself across expertly from his bed into the seat of the powerful wheelchair. "If you open your big mouth and disturb people, I'm gonna throw a brick at you!"

Bobby sneezed almost in disdain and plopped himself down on the floor, eyes following his master's every move. He did not understand the words, but the implications in Earl's tone of voice were obvious.

Arms like hickory fence posts and a powerful chest that might have put a young Arnold Schwartzenegger to shame, Earl Keirkgaard indeed looked like the body builder he was, from the waist up.

From the waist down it was another story. His dead legs, however, had long ceased to be more than a mild inconvenience. He earned his living with his brain, not as a tap dancer.

Earl was fiercely independent and absolutely refused to get dressed up. When in public making speeches about Paramar's research, which happened frequently, he figured they could take him in a sport shirt and jeans or not at all. None of the fancy charity organizations with research dollars to spend had ever complained.

Earl fiddled around and took his time making his bed, going to the bathroom, a comic routine in and of itself, and completing his morning ablutions. He knew the big dog's critical gaze followed him every second. Finally, he decided he was ready to undertake whatever the morning would bring. Tee shirt and scrub pants comprised the uniform of the day.

He and Kip were scheduled to remove Gregory House from the "spikes and stringers" temporary probes and place him on a critical-stage monitor. This would indicate and deduce the correct intensity of the permanent procedure on his crippled leg. They had to program the severity cycle of his responses over a timed interval when his pain began to return. If it did. In cases such as Gregg's, they'd had little experience with live subjects. Bobby didn't count in the human equation, and House's reactions and rise in pain levels were critical to his care. If his chronic pain did not return within this interval, the amount of permanent probes would be greatly reduced. Bobby's had returned immediately, and the odds favored the fact that Gregg's probably would also.

House himself was a study in contradictions as far as Earl Keirkgaard was concerned. He'd read the letter House had written to Kip. Anyone desperate enough to ride a goddamn crotch rocket 600 miles in icy weather in hopes of ridding himself of chronic pain, certainly meant what he'd said. Offering to serve as a guinea pig as well, assured Earl that the man's sincerity was unflagging in its intensity.

Earl could certainly relate to the pain issues. House had confided that he had been in drug rehab because of his mounting dependence on painkillers, and Earl decided early on that the man deserved every chance to achieve the break he needed. The fact that Gregg was a doctor … a diagnostician, no less … made the case even more interesting. House's input from a personal level would be invaluable for future research.

Another intriguing aspect was the presence of James Wilson, the oncologist, who had followed his friend relentlessly, sniffing out House's southbound meandering trail like a hound after a fox. That in itself told Earl that the two men knew each other so well that Wilson hadn't even needed to keep House and his powerful motorcycle in sight. Wilson had known by instinct which roads his friend would take, and which paths he would follow throughout his journey.

All Wilson had to do was hang back and hope he didn't come upon a crumpled heap lying bloody on some lonely back road. Earl shuddered at the thought.

_Jesus Christ! That's devotion! Either that, or insanity!_

Earl pulled out the power cord that had tethered his chair to the wall for the night, and stowed it in the utility box behind the seat. Bobby saw the move from the doorway and scrambled to his feet with a whimper of doggy delight. It meant he was about to be let go out back for his early morning run.

"Don't you bark, you sleazy mongrel!" Earl warned as he approached the dog's side. He reached across, grabbed a handful of coarse white hair and shook it playfully.

Bobby responded by larruping Earl's fingers with a wide expanse of long, pink tongue.

Earl laughed. "Git on out there with ya!" He said, indicating the exit door at the end of the long hallway. He closed his apartment door behind him and then poured on the juice. Bobby was already down by the door, panting with excitement, his once-clumsy tri-cornered stance now as much a part of him as his black eyes and snow-white coat. Even on three legs, he looked almost graceful.

Bobby ran the length of the back lot, sniffing, whuffing, snorting at everything that moved, and squatting like a girl beside every bush, tree or shrub taller than he was.

Earl smiled, watching him, remembering the first few times the big dog had been let outside after the surgery that had removed his foreleg, and the brand new nanoprobe injection, which had relieved the constant pain that kept him howling through the night.

At first, Bobby had tried valiantly to lift a hind leg to spritz a bush like a boy-dog … and had toppled unceremoniously onto his ass with a "whop" that had sent small insects and dandelion fuzzies into the air like a mushroom cloud after an atomic bomb.

Earl and Kip had stood and laughed until their sides hurt at the look of humiliation on the dog's face. Time and time again, Bobby had tried to piss like a "guy", but his efforts always achieved the same result: a "thud" and an "ow!" Finally, he'd gotten the idea, but even now, Earl knew, he certainly didn't much like it.

Earl sat in his wheelchair on the cement pad and let his gaze lift into the distance where the maze of Raleigh's tall buildings rose from the mists of early morning. Every day it seemed that the city was coming closer, infringing on everything around it in its need to grow and expand. Earl shuddered to think of the maze of the downtown, eventually encroaching even out here upon the isolation and quiet of this little industrial park with its small businesses and scattered research laboratories. But man was insatiable. Unable to summon the self-discipline to keep his zippers zipped so he would not overpopulate the world, his need for more and more space would one day become a curse upon the land. In some countries, it already had.

_Hell!_

"I'm becoming a misanthrope!" Earl muttered to himself. He was not in the least apologetic for his errant thoughts, but realized they were useless. Live his life and mind his own business and not contribute to the problem. He smiled to himself, then lowered his eyes to check on Bobby's whereabouts.

The big dog was not in sight. Somewhere out there, lost in the tall weeds, Bobby was very likely in a world of his own, and probably indulging in his stupid habit of munching on grass. Earl curled his lips back tightly against his teeth and whistled shrilly.

At first there was no response. He whistled again, and this time he heard the dog's voice, high and shrill at first, almost like a yipe of distress. He'd gotten himself into a place where three legs were not enough. Then the deeper voice resumed in barks of full-throated reply. Bobby came bounding out of the weeds, zigzagging, covered with dead weed stems and loose field debris.

"You've been rolling in the damned dirt!" Earl groused. "Now you can't come into the labs until Tyree gets off school and comes in to give you a bath. Dumb dog!"

Bobby shook himself vigorously, sending remnants of his misdemeanor flying into the air. Splatters of doggy slobber followed the shedding, and Earl smelled the faint odor of sour doggy breath. "You've been eating grass again too!" He grumbled. "You smell like upchuck. Come on … let's get your sleazy ass back inside. I've got work to do." He turned the wheelchair around and rolled back to the exterior hallway door. He opened it with powerful arms and gunned the chair over the threshold and inside. The door closed automatically behind him and locked itself.

Already halfway down the hall, Bobby turned around expectantly, panting like a racehorse and wondering where in hell his breakfast was …

00000000

Bill Bernard had jacked up the head of House's bed so the man could eat his breakfast by himself without being waited upon like an invalid by someone else. His leg was free of the sling and propped on pillows, his foot once again bare and unbandaged. Gregg seemed to be in good spirits, despite another injection of Lidocaine and another flushing out of the ulcer.

They all knew he was experiencing discomfort, not so much from pain as the pressure from the wound and the inability to move his leg in order to take a look at it for himself. However, he did not complain, which Wilson thought was a minor miracle, and he was eating his breakfast with relish.

The four of them sat grouped together with Gregg in the bed and the other three drawn up close beside it. They all had cholesterol feasts of scrambled eggs smothered in potent horseradish sauce and ketchup, long strips of lean Carolina bacon, and thick slices of rich homemade bread from a local bakery, toasted to perfection and heaped with creamery butter and strawberry jam. Tall cups of steaming coffee waited on the serving cart placed close by where House could reach it easily. He was beginning to use his damaged left hand now, although sparingly, and seemed rather smug about it. He had requested that the bandage not be replaced, and his wish was their command. The skin around the stitches was dark from the lavish application of antiseptics.

Bart seemed to be the only one who was missing out on the bedside nuances; even though the two newcomers were fast beginning to realize that mere blindness seemed to mean very little by way of a handicap to him. His serenity was amazing, his intuition astounding.

"Try not to get horseradish sauce or catsup on your stitches!" he admonished House in a low voice.

House looked at him with raised eyebrows, then glanced around to the others with an expression of: _How the hell did he know???_

Bill shrugged and grinned. Wilson only shrugged and took another bite of toast.

Earl Keirkgaard stopped by for breakfast after returning Bobby to his quarters to await Tyree Tolliver. He fed the dog, gave him water and then left again.

Earl rounded the corner into House's room and sniffed the air with appreciation. They greeted him with grunts of welcome and returned to their breakfast. "You guys leave anything good back there?" He asked accusingly. His glance didn't miss House's bare foot. The ulcer looked angry and he was surprised Gregg wasn't complaining of pain.

"Dig around!" Bill said. "Whatever's there is yours. Coffee pot's up here by the bed. Help yourself. You see Lillian or Kip or Neeka yet?"

Earl disappeared behind the partition. "Not yet," he said. "I just came back from letting the mutt outside to poop."

"Thanks for the graphics," Bill muttered, and the others laughed softly.

Earl returned to the bedside with a full plate. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat facing Gregg House. "I see your hand is a little better, Gregg. That's good. How do you feel … and how is the mess on your foot?"

House looked up and raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine," he said. "'Mess?'"

Earl pulled a face. _Oops! _ He had spoken out of turn. "Uh … yeah … I just got a look at it. You're a little swollen …"

The others had paused to feel each other out, but House's gaze bored directly into his own. "They told me it's fine," he said smoothly. "You see anything different?"

Earl shook his head and sipped at his coffee, stalling for time. "Nah … not really. I just thought it might be hurting you. Those damned things take a hell of a long time to heal."

"The stringers may have something to do with his lack of pain," Wilson suggested.

Beside him, Bart shook his head, smiling disarmingly. "I don't think so," he said. "We had to deaden his foot with Lidocaine every time we flushed it out. It's painful, all right. The thing is, the more we have to flush it out, the more we irritate it. His immune system is trying to fight the intrusion … but the wound is no longer infectious. It's healing."

His explanation calmed them. The tension of Earl's observations slacked off and they resumed their conversation quickly.

Wilson watched his friend's face for signs of skepticism or disbelief, but when the large blue eyes rested briefly on his own, House's expression eased his worry. It was okay.

Kip and Lillian and Shaniqua joined them one by one about eight a.m., starting time. Earl had finished his breakfast and took his leave, accompanying Lillian down the corridor on their way to the lab. He waved a temporary goodbye. Lillian called back: "Toodle-oo …" and the two of them rolled off in tandem.

House watched them leave together and warbled off-key under his breath: "And the Caissons go Rolling Along …" At least two of his companions rolled their eyes.

Kip Bernoski, however, was all business this morning.

"I was in touch with Cyrus Markham at the Science Foundation last night," he said to House. "We have the go-ahead for your surgery and the procedure for the nanocites insertion into your leg. They will cover anything we need to do. I put in an emergency call to him from home and told him about your volunteer status being a 'go'. I explained to him about your difficult motorcycle journey to get here. Cy made a call to some of his colleagues and then called me back. They are duly impressed, and they are going to monitor the proceedings online with Lillian Chan, which, by the way, have been scheduled for tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. We have all our bases covered, Gregg … so if you're ready for this, we'll take you off the spikes and stringers sometime this afternoon. You have to be closely monitored until we can determine whether your pain comes back, and to what degree. Can you put up with it for just a little longer?"

All eyes turned to look at House's face.

He acknowledged them with direct eye contact, one at a time, before he answered, mostly for Bart's benefit: "I'm _quite_ freakin' ready, thank you."

Beside him, Wilson's chin dropped to his chest.

Shaniqua Tolliver, silent until that moment, sighed loudly. "Oh, Baby Boy! … y'awl just made this Mama sooo happy."

House scowled. And grimaced … and scrunched one eye shut with a different pain …

00000000

They flushed his foot again just after lunch, rebandaged it carefully, then left him alone after administering something that would encourage him to sleep.

Wilson waited until the deep breathing told him Gregg was out. He stood looking down at the relaxed face, smiling a little at the fact that House's famous five-o'clock shadow was once again rapidly overtaking the lower half of his countenance. He turned then, and left to go back to his own quarters.

Wilson sat on the edge of his bed and fingered the dark contours of Gregg's cane; that long, strong clothes-prop of an implement that had kept Gregory House on his feet the past God-only-knew-how-many years. It lent him mobility and an illusion of grace in his many odd patterns of movement. It sustained his ability to walk without making him appear that his entire right side might at any moment simply crumple out from beneath him.

Wilson slid his fingers back and forth slowly on the smooth wooden shaft, wondering idly whether the cane would return to play a part in Gregg's future … or whether it might stand abandoned in a dusty corner … replaced by crutches or a dreaded wheelchair.

Wilson sighed, laid the cane down close beside him on the bed. He picked up the dark leather jacket with the red and white stripes near the shoulders and the zippers at the cuffs. It had fared amazingly well through the rain and the snow and the mud, and with the touch of a damp cloth, would probably be as good as new. Well, almost.

He opened a plastic garbage bag he'd found in a dresser drawer, and lowered all House's ruined and bloody clothing to the bottom of it. He then reached for the backpack he'd abandoned this morning. Was it really only this morning?

He reached inside and removed all the soggy fast-food wrappers and smelly used napkins and the sticky candy wrappers. He dropped the crumpled aluminum Mountain Dew cans into the bag, one at a time, and listened to the clank as the metal objects bounced off one another.

When he got to the envelope with the JAMA article and the copy of Gregg's original volunteer application, he removed the papers from the envelope carefully, got up from the bed, walked to the dresser and flattened the papers side-by-side on top. Something to look back on someday … with fondness … or dread. Outcome still unknown.

When he returned to the bed, Wilson lugged the heavy saddlebags with him and let them drop onto the floor with a clunk. Methodically he finished with the backpack, fingered the soggy GameBoy and laid it on the pillow on the opposite side of the one he was using. A halo of water darkened the pillowcase beneath it. It was really drowned! The iPod still lay on the bedside stand drying out. He wondered if it would work. He also wondered why House had not asked for it. Perhaps he had more important things on his mind …

Wilson wiped out the backpack with a damp cloth and placed it on the floor upside down with all the zippers open. It would probably be fine once it had the chance to dry out inside.

The contents of the saddlebags had him shaking his head in wonder. Everything in there was dry as a bone. The heavy fiberglass chambers were air-and-watertight as a tomb. Smiling to himself, he laid out the contents on the bed beside the cane. There was an Army canteen … waterfilled. A big red penknife with a dozen fancy gizmos in it. A third of a roll of duct tape, the makeshift hiding place for an amount a little under $4,000.

_Jeez!_

In a huge Ziploc bag he discovered a blackened, small, one-use-only Hibachi grill … _very_ used! Half of a burnt "something-unidentifiable" sandwich, and a full can of Mountain Dew.

Digging deeper, his fingers closed around rolled-up clothing. A hard, rubber-banded bundle containing jeans, tee shirt, socks and underwear. All clean. Gregg must have decided that changing clothes on the run just wasn't worth the trouble.

At the bottom of the container, Wilson found a large torch-type flashlight, covered with sticky crumbs of what had once been a jumbo-size bag of bar-b-q chips. Beside them, a big green yoyo with the string snarled in all directions.

House packed for a trip somewhat like a six-year-old.

The other saddlebag contained nothing but a soggy sleeping bag, stuffed down inside haphazardly without thought to folding or rolling. Gregory House all the way.

James looked with amusement at the loot spread out around him. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry.

Most of all, he just wanted to go back to Gregg's side and sit there with him, hold onto him if he had to. Wilson needed to be there for his friend when it was time to remove the "spikes and stringers" that invaded the flesh of his crippled leg and left him open and vulnerable, waiting for the pain to return …

Guesswork!

James got up from the bed, letting all the goodies lay where he had tossed them. He could not be useful here.

He took one last look at the cane, discarded in the middle of the bed with Gregg's possessions scattered around it.

He walked into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him.

Down the corridor in the opposite direction, where Earl Keirkgaard's quarters were located, he could hear the dog barking …

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145


	28. Chapter 28

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Twenty-Eight -

"Dumping"

Gregory House startled awake.

Hardcore nightmarish dream images scattered away into distant oblivion, leaving him restless, nervous and agitated. He did not understand why he felt so rattled. He was not in pain, or uncomfortable, or too warm or too cold, or otherwise distressed. His dreams, whatever-the-hell they were, had been harsh, and turned his lungs to putty, and played hell with his breathing and heartbeat. He listened, limbs going painfully rigid, wondering why it didn't transmit to the monitors.

He blinked his eyes and looked around, suddenly realizing that he was trembling, and his fists were clenched tightly by his sides. The stitches in his hand were pulled tight.

_Ow!_

Not far from his bedside, James Wilson sat in the same chair he had occupied into the wee hours of this morning. He was deeply engrossed in a pamphlet of some kind. House frowned, trying to relax his body and squint his eyes in order to make out the title.

He might have known. It was a technical piece on nanotechnology by a biomedical engineer at the University of Texas; an article about modified plastics for use in repairing traumatized and severed nerve endings. He could feel his body preparing to spazz into a bout of insane, hysterical laughter at the images that formed in his mind. He froze, then gasped for breath.

Wilson felt the electricity permeate the air, and picked up on the changes in his friend's breathing, wafting heavy around him. He looked up sharply into House's tense face, dropped the article onto the floor and hastened to Gregg's side.

"Hey … you're awake … what is it? You look like you saw a ghost. What's wrong?"

House could not speak for a few moments. He swallowed convulsively, fighting for control, staring hard into Wilson's kind eyes. "I … I …"

"Shhh … easy … you're stiff as a board. Relax for a second, okay? … before you hurt yourself?"

Gregg nodded and swallowed again. He shivered, and the sharp, involuntary movement irritated the wounds where the spikes entered through the skin of his thigh. His sore foot pounded with unadulterated ferocity. He did not know what was happening, or why.

Wilson reached across and gathered both House's hands into his own. "Are you in pain? Is it your foot? Can you answer me? Do you want me to get someone?"

"No!" The last question had galvanized him, and his eyes darted furtively from side to side.

Looking for what? Something had frightened him badly.

"What can I do to help?" Wilson insisted. He hefted a hip and settled himself carefully onto the bed at House's side.

"No … no time! Can't …" He knew he wasn't making sense. He could not seem to coax his brain into engaging his mouth so he could say something even vaguely coherent; intelligent.

Finally, one word: "Stay!"

"I'm not going anywhere …"

"Promise?" Gregg's eyes were changing. Bluing out. The icy sparks that leapt out of them were driven by pure, unrestrained panic. Wilson could see the frightened six-year-old who resided within.

He leaned closer, indulging the moment for his friend's peace of mind. This unique and

brilliant child-man was scared out of his wits and couldn't understand why. "Promise," he whispered.

Wilson eased gradually into the quiet of the interval that laid itself upon them, holding both Gregg's hands within his own. At last the corded muscles in the other man's taut body began to relax. House unwound from his coiled-spring state and returned to a position of more natural repose. "Better?" James asked.

"Uh … yeah," House was still speaking in monosyllables, but he looked better, and was finally answering questions with words that made sense. "S-s … sorry …"

"Hush! It's okay. I think you were dreaming. How about a drink of water?"

"Yeah. Better. Drink … yeah …"

"I'll go get you one. Be right back. You okay now?"

"Yeah …"

Wilson went behind the partition, pulled a bottle of fresh water out of the small fridge and returned. He screwed off the cap and handed it across.

House drank deeply and sighed. "Thanks."

"Sure. That was weird. Any idea yet what might have brought it on?"

"No. God! I don't _ever_ want anything like that to happen again!"

"Me either. I thought at first your pain had come back … even with the stringers in there."

"That's a creepy thought."

"Yes it is … and it's soon time for Bill and Kip and Earl to come in and do that …"

"I know."

"Does it scare you? I mean … someone messing with your leg again?"

"Not sure. Maybe … some …"

"You … know I'm here … if you need me." 

"Yeah, I know …"

House's eyes turned furtive again, resting everywhere except upon the person he was addressing. His lack of social graces where Wilson was concerned sometimes held him at a disadvantage. What could he say when Wilson's open and casual overtures of friendship reached out to him? There was always this niggling suspicion deep in his gut that suggested Wilson needed more than he was capable of giving in return.

And so he focused his gaze on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. He bowed his head like the tongue-tied six-year-old that he was; knowing that Wilson was probably smiling inside and thinking that his friend's non-answer spoke louder than words anyhow …

Silence stretched between them for long moments, and when Gregory House finally looked up, motivated by curiosity more than anything else, there was indeed a quiet smile on Wilson's face. It was like the sun emerging after a storm, and the resulting rainbow made the whole world look fresh and new again. He found himself returning the smile, tiny though it was.

"You mess with my mind, dammit!" he groused. He refused to give any more ground than that.

Wilson reached out again, palm up, fingers waggling. Gregg responded, even without conscious thought. He lifted his lame hand and extended it across, keeping the fingers curled inward because it felt better that way.

Wilson took it gently, in the same manner he had cradled House's broken hand the time he'd smashed it with the pestle. "You might want to try flexing your fingers a little," he suggested, "or this will stiffen up on you and make it a lot harder."

House nodded shortly. "Yeah. I know that too. It just didn't seem to be so much a priority right now …"

Wilson's brown eyes pinned him. "I understand." His tenth-grade psychological gambit had worked better than he'd anticipated. "You're a little apprehensive about what's going to happen with your leg today. I can tell. I feel the tension radiating off you. Your arm is like a power cord to the junction box of your body … and it feels like it's about to blow a fuse."

Busted!

House resorted to sarcasm, his one sure-fire defense: "Now you're an electrical engineer. You've been reading too damn many articles on the cure-all properties of nanocites, and you're seeing conduits shorting out everywhere you look! You're seeing the damn things hooking into people's brains and making robots out of them … then zapping them and frying them with itty-bitty ray guns … " He pulled his hand back and placed it gingerly across his concave stomach.

Wilson didn't flinch. "Your dream was about the return of the pain, wasn't it? Did you dream you were dying too?"

"No!

"No … not _me …"_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

148


	29. Chapter 29

"GUESSWORK"

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Mirrors of Destiny"

Wilson's jaw dropped open at House's words. He could feel a knife-edge of dread beginning at the base of his spine, hurtling upward with icy fingers until the hairs at the base of his neck rose in alarm.

Eyes wide, James drew a breath to speak, but his timing was all wrong.

Earl Keirkgaard entered the room first, followed closely by Kip Bernoski and Bill Bernard. Shadowing Bill, as usual, Bart Kirkpatrick brought up the rear, pushing a large medical crash cart filled with alien supplies and equipment.

Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat and hazarded a final glance at House's face. He knew without a doubt that his friend had just experienced some obscure mental trigger that enabled him to remember the dream. His eyes were huge and stricken in his pale face. He had intended to talk about his fears, Wilson believed, but the business at hand made it quite impossible.

Wilson blinked both eyes slowly in reassurance, making sure House saw the gesture, and then added a small shoulder shrug of resignation. House saw it indeed and looked away, his own eyes, over-bright mirrors of fear and regret, but knowing now was not the time to voice his trepidation out loud.

There were other fears to be considered first.

Kip Bernoski and Bart Kirkpatrick walked up to House's side. Bart placed his hand on the edge of the bed, from there judging House's position. He then moved on up House's arm until his hand rested lightly on the bony shoulder. "We're prepared to unhook you from the damn scaffolding, son," he joked. "Are you about ready to see where the bear shit in the buckwheat?"

Wilson saw Gregg gradually unfold under the old man's relaxed presence. Bart could not have been at a better place at a better time. He'd made exactly the right gestures, spoken the right words, and the feral glint in House's eyes softened second by second. Wilson swallowed the second lump in his throat, but this one was not fear. More like gratitude.

"I'm ready," House said. "My ass is getting calluses. I'd like to get the hell out of this contraption and out of this bed."

"We can arrange that," Bart told him. "Right Kip?"

"You got that right," Bernoski replied.

He and the others were pulling on rubber gloves, donning sterile masks. "This procedure isn't much different from removing an intravenous needle from under your skin," he said. "… except that there are four of them. We'll slide the stringers right off over your foot, and you're done with it. Of course we have to be very careful of your foot … but we're all aware of that … so it shouldn't present a problem. The removal wounds will probably bleed a little, so we'll bandage you lightly."

The spikes came out with no problem, the wounds left behind covered quickly with rolled gauze held down with adhesive tape. House couldn't even bitch that the tape pulled the tiny hairs on his leg because in the vicinity of the massive surgical scar, no body hair had grown for years.

They buckled the intricate stringer mesh and rolled it carefully down over his calf and out from under his foot. The wound on the sole of his foot, they noticed, was turning slowly back to a healthier pink around the edges, rather than the reddish purple of the day before. Their attention to the constant sterile flushing and application of antibiotics around it was paying off. The wound still looked off-putting and sore, but not angry and infected.

Earl Keirkgaard placed the collapsed stringer apparatus into a sterile basin and left the room with it. Wilson wondered abstractedly where he might be taking it. Could it be used again? Or was it headed for toxic waste? He did not think to ask. His rapt attention was riveted on Gregg and Bart.

Bart Kirkpatrick was still positioned at House's head, his soft fingers gently stroking House's shoulder from collarbone to carotid artery, and Gregg was allowing it with seeming relish, his head relaxed against the pillows. Wilson watched with contented satisfaction, thinking that House and this gentle and wise old man could become good friends if only the opportunity presented itself. House responded to him better than anyone Wilson had ever seen before.

Kip Bernoski and Bill Bernard were busy getting House settled again. They lifted his legs one at a time and drew up a pair of soft old scrub pants. They elevated his bad leg high on a pair of bed pillows for a short time until it got used to a small amount of mobility's return.

Surgical masks and rubber gloves disappeared into the waste, and things returned quickly to whatever passed for "normal" around there. Wilson watched their movements silently, taking note of the minimum of excess motion. They did not linger long when touching House's body, nor did they move him about more than absolutely necessary. Wilson was impressed, and House seemed to be melting into it. Wilson could see no indication yet of the return of the pain. He wondered briefly about the outside threshold …

Kip and Bill and Bart seemed in no hurry to leave or attend to duties elsewhere. They were probably expecting something to happen soon. He had asked about the threshold before, but they hadn't been able to give him a clear answer. So he waited with them.

House waited also. They could see his concentration and impatience pulling a stoic mask across his face. When the pain returned … _if_ it did … he had no intention of doing anything more than calmly announcing its arrival …

House, after all, was still House!

An hour passed with no further developments. Earl had not returned. Wilson decided he had gone back to the lab. He and Lillian Chan were probably doing further work on the medical procedure House must undergo. Bill Bernard had disappeared behind the rear partition with the crash cart and was rattling things around back there. Wilson thought he might be making a pot of coffee. He hoped so.

Bart had retreated back there also, following where he always followed. He had been on his feet a long time. Wilson suspected he might have gone back to lie down on the cot while they waited for something to happen with Gregg.

Only Kip Bernoski remained close to House's bedside, watching the electrical monitors closely, keeping track of respiration and blood pressure and studying Gregory House's face. For some reason, Wilson suspected that Kip Bernoski suspected … something.

_What?_

Gregg's expression was a study in intense mental control. He sat still, his right hand worrying at his thigh, a gesture he had abandoned the last twenty-four hours. Was his pain returning? Or was he just preparing for his pain's returning?

Wilson walked nonchalantly around the end of the bed and took up the position where Bart Kirkpatrick had stood at House's side. He lifted a hand to the shoulder where Bart's had been, and Gregg looked up at him suddenly, as though unaware until now that he was there. Wilson squeezed gently.

"Hey …"

House eased his head into the contact, but remained silent. His eyes were on Bernoski. Wilson watched, but did not speak further.

At the room's doorway, movement caught their attention.

Shaniqua Tolliver and her son, Tyree, were entering, coming closer, lending greetings to them. Wilson, Kip and House voiced greetings in return. Tyree lurched closer to the bed and stopped close to House's side. "How ya doin', man?" He asked.

House moved restlessly on the bed, the others watching in consternation. He nodded shortly, a silent response. Then his eyes widened.

Wilson grinned, suddenly realizing what the reason was. Tyree was wearing iPod ear

buds, the thin white wire disappearing around his body into a hip pocket. House looked at the wire, then up into the kid's face.

Wilson turned slightly to Kip, lowering his voice to a whisper. "He drowned his own iPod on the road," he said by way of explanation. "Right now, that kid looks like Santa Claus to him! When he has a case to solve, or when he's distressed about something … like now … and especially when there _are_ no cases … he always needs to be occupied with something. He plays piano … paces … plays a video game … I'd be willing to bet he's thinking of ways to con Tyree out of that thing …"

Tyree looked up at Wilson at that moment, looked at Kip, looked at House whose eyes were still on the thin white wire. Slowly the boy removed the ear buds, pulled the little device out of his pocket and handed it across to Gregg House with a knowing smile.

House hesitated, looked about, then reached up shyly and took the buds from the kid's hand. Tyree moved closer to the bed and assisted House in putting them into his own ears. House grinned. Evidently, their tastes in music matched very closely.

Tyree stepped back and laughed out loud. "You da man, Dogg!" He quoted from somewhere.

Behind them, there was the joyful bark of a real dog. Bobby came scratching through the doorway and lumbered over to Tyree, sat down at the boy's side and looked up adoringly. His coat looked almost silver in the sunlight, and it was obvious he had just had a bath.

On the bed, Gregory House's face paled to deathly white. He yanked the iPod ear buds from his ears and dropped them on the bed as he stared in horror at the German Shepherd.

"No!" He shouted. "No time! Can't …"

He tore his gaze away, face filled with instant panic; a mirror of the unreasonable fear he had tried to express earlier. _ … the bus was bearing down on the dog …noooo …_

Wilson froze, icy fingers again playing an arpeggio along his spine. He tightened his hold and pulled House's tousled head closer into his arms. His friend was trembling violently …

Something to do with the dog … 

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

152


	30. Chapter 30

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty -

"Getting the Ducks in Line"

Sometimes it was easy to tell when House was upset. Sometimes not.

This time James Wilson was at a loss.

Early evening settled in at Paramar Clinic and the lengthening shadows morphed into stick figures that spread thin across the floor. Silence, which cast its pall over the room, seemed heavy and oppressive. What had just happened to Gregory House should never happen to anyone.

Wilson indicated in a polite but firm manner that everyone leave the room after Gregg lost it. This man should never be seen in such vulnerable condition. The wild and terrified look in House's eyes when the dog walked in gave Wilson a glimpse of what it might be like if one day House's sanity left him completely. It was a frightening thought, and the lump growing in Wilson's gut quickly turned to stone.

House quieted as soon as Tyree and Shaniqua called Bobby out into the corridor and the three of them beat a hasty retreat from the vicinity. The others filed out in subdued silence directly afterward, prompted only by the frown of alarm and apology on Wilson's face. The subtle lift of his chin toward the open doorway left no question about his state of mind.

An errant tendril of alarm dashed through Wilson's thoughts. What would the others take away from all this? They were probably asking themselves what the hell they'd gotten into with this unstable lunatic and his idiotic sidekick …

At this moment he sat still, a willing captive, sitting rigid in the chair beside House's bed. His only free hand mussed gently through House's sweat-damp hair.

Gregg held onto his other arm with both hands clamped near the elbow, and continued to stare at the same spot on the ceiling that he had stared at for almost half an hour. Earlier, his breathing had come in labored gasps … the frightened six-year-old again. His eyes had clenched tightly shut, head turned toward the wall and away from the center of the room. The others had gathered around in startled compassion when he'd cried out in panic with the nightmare's bold recurrence.

Now, however, things were calmed down. House was quiet, a little less tense, a little less traumatized. His features had relaxed from the rigid fright mask he'd presented earlier. His breathing was evening out slowly, and the trembling was gone from his limbs. But both hands were still clamped to Wilson's upper arm, and Wilson feared he would break his stitches.

Silently he waited it out.

Wilson's palm switched from House's hair to his shoulder, fingers lightly working the corded muscles beneath the soggy shirt. His lips were close to House's ear, and the words he found himself whispering were pure nonsense; much the same as the nonsense rhymes he'd so often murmured to desperately ill children on the pediatric cancer ward:

"Puppy dogs, bunnies, kittens. Think about 'em, House. Wolves at midnight, howling at the moon. Fields of flowers, pastel rainbows. Then picture the splashy paint scheme of 'Grave Digger'! Look there! Wild horses running through the tall grass … in your devious mind more like nude female bathers on a beach in France!

"A Merry-Go-Round in the park … ice cream and cake for your birthday party. Except you'd rather have pizza with everything and a bottomless keg of beer, wouldn't ya? Oh look! Here comes a fire engine …and an elephant …and … isn't that Santa Claus and Rudolph? Oh yeah, House … I'm reading your mind … and you'd see Carmen Electra on a Corvette Sting Ray … riding into town with JLo and the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders!"

Not the words, exactly, but the flippancy of the whole monologue. He really doubted that House was hearing the words anyhow … but the low murmur of his voice was soothing and calming and as whimsical as he could possibly make it. Judging from the ghost of a smile that quirked the corner of House's mouth at the moment, the absurdity of the whole idea had penetrated that isolated mind somehow …

As time flowed slowly past and the evening grew older, Gregory House's large hands gradually relaxed and finally slid away from their death grip on Wilson's arm. He turned his head away from his stiff perusal of the wall and the ceiling, and let his center of attention refocus on the countenance of the man who sat glued and unmoving to his side.

Wilson smiled as the resumption of lucidity manifested itself in the depths of the expressive eyes. Joyfully, he witnessed the persona of his best friend as it returned once again to claim dominion.

"Hey, House …" Wilson said: the standard opening to so many of their conversations. Those words, and the manner in which they were spoken, usually indicated that there was no snark involved in what was to follow.

"Hey, W-Wilson …"

"Lost you for awhile there …"

"Yeah … I … I know. I think I got revisited …"

"You mean … the dream?"

"Uh huh. Christ! I hate that shit!"

"Wanna tell me?"

House hesitated for a lengthening interval. Then, at last:

"I was … walking down a long corridor … doors on both sides … all closed. I kept on walking. Wasn't sure what I was looking for. Just looking. I saw one of the doors was open … way down at the end … I slowed down and walked outside.

"I knew there was something out there that I wasn't gonna like, but I went out anyway. Jesus! It was like walking right into the middle of a busy street. In the street was this freakin' big red bus … coming at me like the hammers of hell. I froze. It was the same bus that hit the mutt … except the mutt wasn't there … and the bus was comin' after _me! _It had teeth … and its mouth was wide open. I couldn't move. My leg …"

"Damn, House …"

"Tell me about it! But the thing was so Goddamn _real!_ …"

"What?" Wilson spoke softly, his face very near House's ear. He did not want to spook him now.

House resumed, his tone just as soft. A fearful sense of awe permeated his voice. "Kip told me …while they were hooking me to the stringers … the nanoprobe procedure they're going to perform on me … whenever … was used on the mutt first. It was used later on Kip too … and Earl and Bill … because all three of them were experiencing chronic pain. It worked for them. But Kip told me it doesn't _always_ work. There were some failures too, but I didn't ask, and he didn't say. Maybe I should have …

"In my dream … I think the damn bus went after Bobby and killed him … all over again." The last words of that revelation were spoken in a tense and breathless manner.

Wilson stiffened slightly; hoping the involuntary tightening of his own hands hadn't translated itself to House's body. He knew it had, however, when the telltale vertical lines appeared between the intense blue eyes. "House … it was only a dream …"

"Then why did you flinch?"

Wilson searched for an answer that would work for both of them without broadcasting his own fear in a direct pipeline to his aching heart. It was no use. He lowered his eyes, and House plucked the truth from his actions as a child plucks a clover from the lawn.

From somewhere deep inside his ever-sarcastic soul, House diffused the heavy air of tension with a wisecrack. "Wilson, I know you're no match for me when it comes to all the brilliant and profound witticisms … but even this old cripple can't read minds! Not even your simple, non-convoluted neurological pathways crowded with puppies and bunnies and rainbows … and Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Could you please cut me some slack and bring me another drink of water? I'm so dry I think I could spit dust …"

"Sure, House," Wilson said with a grin and a roll of his eyes. "Let me go get it."

"Wilson?"

"Huh?"

"By the way … my pain … I think it's coming back. I'm getting the creepy-crawlies in my thigh. They were right … it's not going to pass me by. We don't get an outside threshold."

"Oh God!" Wilson stopped in his tracks and did an about-face to return to the bed.

"Wilson! It's okay. The pain … it was curious. Probably just missed having all those subtle little talks with me! It had to come back to see how I was doing without it … and got mad as hell when it found out I didn't even miss it …"

Gregg's words had turned dark and half bitter, his right hand back on the leg. Rubbing carefully … "My water?"

"Uh … yeah, okay …" Wilson paused a moment, studying House's face. ouse's face, makingHouse's Ho He'd heard the knife-edge grind in the shift of tone, but did not question him. Snark was the furthest thing from Gregg's mind at the moment. He was handling the pain's gradual resurgence in a familiar manner, however, and his response was neither unexpected nor unanticipated.

Wilson pulled another bottle of cold water from the fridge and returned to his friend with it. "Here," he said, settling himself gently on the edge of the bed and handing the bottle across. "Is there anything I can do?"

House took the water into his lame hand. The pain of movement it had caused a few hours before was beginning to run distant second to the returning misery in his thigh.

"No. I need to get past it. Right now it's just a trumpet and a trombone screwing around in there. Pretty soon the whole freakin' orchestra will be tuning up. I know Kip can't do the nanocites procedure until tomorrow at the earliest. This should be an interesting night. I suppose the Neurontin and the Ultram and the Advil are long gone in the manner of the Dinosaur and the Dodo Bird and the Passenger Pigeon …"

Wilson sat looking at his friend's face. The pinched look about Gregg's eyes was returning, along with the pain. For awhile he'd been relaxed, almost tranquil … at least until the monster in the dream had taken a stranglehold on him. Now his eyes were downcast again, losing their luster. His lips drooped open, breathing through his mouth, hunching his thin shoulders, endeavoring to conserve energy for the difficult hours ahead.

Wilson sighed, leaned backward and dug his hand into his jeans pocket. "I have something a lot better than Neurontin and Ultram." Reluctantly he drew out the amber vial of Vicodin he'd carried with him from Princeton. He thumbed off the cap in much the same fashion he'd seen House do it for years.

Wilson dumped two of the white pills into his open palm and offered his palm to a dumbfounded Gregory House.

"Here," he said. "This is for all the times I tried to tell you that your pain was in your head. It's for all the times I didn't take a moment to listen to you when you tried to tell me how bad it was. That'll never happen again, House, and there's no reason why you should spend the last hours before your surgery having to fight pain that should never have been allowed to get this far in the first place. Making you choose rehab was the biggest mistake I've ever made."

House reached out to take the pills, eyes suspicious and full of doubt, mingled with hope and endless possibilities. He leaned his head back and palmed them into his mouth. Took a long swig of the cold water. "Thanks, Wilson. Better than a Higher Power, even."

"You're welcome. I'm very sorry, House. Sorry for everything."

House continued to observe the gentle sincerity of Wilson's warm attention. "It's okay." He leaned back on his pillows and closed his eyes.

Wilson waited with his best friend. They both waited. Endured together the long, miserable minutes while the returning pain manifested itself further and caused Gregg to curl his hands into fists, purse his lips and wait for the Vicodin to take effect.

And then it did.

Moment by moment House's limbs relaxed again, his head deepened into the pillows, and he sighed with relief, finally, as the narcotics deadened the neural pathways to his brain. "Wilson, don't you want to go somewhere and lie down awhile? I'm fine now. Aren't you about ready to crash?"

Wilson frowned, eyeing the other man with forced skepticism. "There you go again," he said. "Making me wonder who the hell you are … and what you did with Gregory House."

The snort he got in return was more in character. "G'wan … go back to your room and play with yourself! Don't you have laundry to do and shirts and neckties to iron? Did you dry out my GameBoy and my iPod and charge my cell phone? Did you clean out my backpack and saddlebags? Did you drink my last Mountain Dew and eat my last candy bar?

"You didn't dump my red necktie, did you?"

Wilson sighed, happy to experience the welcome return of exasperation. "I did all of that," he grumbled, "except do your laundry and iron your shirts. If your shirts were ironed, nobody would know you.

"And no … I didn't throw away the damn red necktie. It hangs from the mirror on the dresser. Why'd you bring it along with you, anyway?"

"I thought you'd have that figured out by now, Wilson." House did not intend to give any concessions. Especially not here and not now.

"Actually," Wilson admitted, "I do need to get on my laptop and let Cuddy know where we are … and tell her about you too. She gave me three weeks off to see that you got home safe, wherever I found you, but from the looks of things, we'll probably need twice that. Okay if I tell her where we are? And what's about to happen with you?"

House turned his tired face back to look at Wilson again. He was beginning to zone out from the double Vicodin dose he was no longer accustomed to taking. "You can tell the freakin' President of the United States for all I care right now," he said slowly.

Wilson knew he was a little fuzzy around the edges, and probably would not remember this conversation in the morning. However, he really needed to let Cuddy know what was going on. It was three days without home base contact, and he had promised to let her know.

"Thanks, House."

"Negative perspiration …" Unwittingly quoting his military father. He was quickly sliding toward sleep.

Wilson called Bill and Bart to tell them they could come back now … House was sleeping. He warned them that his friend's pain had returned at 8:30 p.m., and that he was leaving a vial of Vicodin in the drawer of the bedside table. He asked also that they not withhold the drug from House when he asked for it. They were savvy enough to recognize that an ironclad request lay couched in the simple statement.

James Wilson touched Gregg's tousled hair gently, then stole out of the room and returned to his quarters.

Email Cuddy? Yes. Immediately.

Iron House's ratty shirts?

No.

Damn.

Way!

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

159


	31. Chapter 31

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-One -

"Zero Hour"

Ten minutes after ten o'clock p.m.

She was still in her office. The dearth of medical personnel had hit hard this week, and she'd been forced into clinic duty Sunday afternoon and all day Monday. It was a good possibility that she would have to fill in again tomorrow. The Assistant Director of Oncology, James Wilson's second in command, had fallen down his icy front steps and broken his arm in two places. Eric Foreman had been called for jury duty, beginning this morning. What next? Where the _hell_ were House and Wilson?

She stood by the window behind her desk and stared into the softly falling snow. Here it was, Tuesday night, and she had not heard a damn word from either one of them, and the incoherent thoughts tumbling around inside her head called both men everything but gentlemen.

Lisa Cuddy thrust out her lower lip and blew aside the stray lock that dangled between her eyes. Wasted effort. It dropped right back again. She lowered herself into her desk chair and thumbed through the pile of file folders stacked there. She was behind in everything. She had purchase orders and work requisitions as yet unsigned, and a budget meeting tomorrow morning would find her ill prepared and probably ill tempered.

Cuddy's computer was in standby mode. The monitor scrolled aerial photos of the big hospital complex that normally swelled her heart with quiet pride every time she looked at them. Tonight, however, she could not have cared less if it was scrolling nude photos of every male movie star she had ever adored. Her mind was into the abstract rather than the concrete … or was it the other way around?

Tiredly, she hit the mouse a shot with her forefinger and brought up a list of emails she hadn't had time to go through. She didn't feel like going through them tonight either, and was just about to shut down and go home before the roads were impassable. Finger poised on the screen's "start" switch, she froze when she saw a familiar buzz name close to the middle of the in his softhearted, devious way, Wilson could be as bizarre as House. He was finally checking in. He must have located the jackass on the motorcycle, and they were on their way back. She wondered why he hadn't just called on his cell phone.

Oh never mind … he probably didn't actually want to _talk _to her. He wanted to report whatever he'd found out during his excursions, and not have to answer the dozen or so questions she would inevitably ask …

She clicked on his email message and sat reading it with her mouth dropping open further with every sentence he wrote:

"Dr. Cuddy: 

" I am in Raleigh, North Carolina at an experimental pain clinic, and Dr. House is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning …"

Lisa Cuddy blanched, and pulled a long, labored breath into her lungs.

"Oh … my God! What in the _hell_ is going on? How nice of you to let me in on all this in such a kind and gentle manner, Dr. Wilson! How nice of you to spit it out in a way that makes me feel as though I just drove my car into a brick wall! How nice of you indeed! What the _hell_ happened to House?"

Cuddy wished she had a paper shopping bag. She felt like she was about to hyperventilate. She took another deep breath and worked at swallowing the lump that formed in her throat. No damn _wonder_ Wilson had shied away from talking on the phone! Consciously slowing her respiration, she blinked and read further.

"House left rehab, as we know, last Friday at noon, and immediately embarked on a road trip to North Carolina."

Embarked??

"He had been in touch earlier with a group of medical people at an experimental pain clinic here, and had volunteered for their program. Unfortunately … House being House … he did not choose to confide in any of us.

No kidding!?

"He rode his motorcycle 600 miles in the worst possible weather conditions, and arrived here ill, injured (I won't go into that now) and in terrible pain."

Well, when in hell WILL you go into it?

"I rented a different car and followed him, hoping to keep him safe, although I was not entirely successful. The people here took him in and saw to his needs in a professional manner, and we are both in their company now, and taking advantage of their hospitality."

Wilson, you're getting to be as big a freeloader as he is!

"_The surgery I spoke of will take place in the morning, and if it is successful, as we hope it will be, Gregory House will be pain free for the first time in nearly ten years. This clinic, as you may already have guessed, is a combination of state-of-the-art technology, cutting edge medical research, and a little 'X-Files' thrown in for good measure._

"_If you have not come upon it already, I placed some literature about the pain program under your desk blotter last Friday night. Rather than trying to explain to you further, I would ask you to read this information thoroughly, with an open mind, and remember what Gregg House has been going through while the two of us … and many others at PPTH … looked at him sideways and told him his pain was all in his head, and that he was a drug addict._

"_It wasn't … and he's not!_

"_I will call you tomorrow after the surgery on House's leg. We will require additional time off from our duties, as House also suffers from a decubitas ulcer on the bottom of his foot, and will not be able to walk for quite some time. (More about that later.) I cannot, in good conscience, leave him alone during that time._

"_Thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I'll let you know how it goes._

"_Regards, J. E. Wilson."_

Astounded and sitting limp in her chair, feeling as though she'd just been sucker-punched in the stomach, Cuddy reread the email message, reread it again, then printed out a hard copy and saved the message to the "Wilson" folder on the desktop.

"My God! How in the name of all that's holy, did he manage to give himself a pressure ulcer on the bottom of his foot?"

Almost as an afterthought, she lifted the corner of her desk blotter to look, and the two stapled-together articles were right where Wilson said they would be. She read them. Read them again. Read them a third time. Twenty-Third-Century medicine!

If she were not so damn tired, afraid of making no sense at all on the telephone, she would have put in a curiosity call to a longtime colleague at MIT. She had heard of nanocite experiments in medicine … but leave it to Gregory House to locate a private

clinic close by in the continental USA!

In the meantime, her thoughts returned to the two maverick doctors who continually caused her bouts of sour stomach and lingering tension headaches, but both of whom she held in highest regard anyway.

They think they can really take his pain away? For good? Ooh … House … 

For now, control of the situation was entirely out of her hands and in the competent ones of James Wilson. He could look after Gregory House better than anyone else on the planet. She needed to let this alone, not worry it, and allow him free reign.

_Damn them!_

She smiled and wished them well, wondering what it would be like to be around House if he unexpectedly cultivated a bedside manner.

Nah … nanocites couldn't do much by way of attitude adjustment. Could they?

Lisa Cuddy turned off her computer and her desk light, retrieved her coat, hat and scarf from the coat rack in the corner, and locked her office door.

Tomorrow would bring whatever tomorrow would bring …

00000000

Wilson kicked his sheet to the foot of the bed and sat up. The night seemed to be closing in around him, and he'd been tossing and turning for two hours, maybe more. He was too warm, even with the big ventilation system humming quietly, and he could feel the snick of something oppressive at the back of his mind. Probably the same damn thing that had awakened him the last time, and the time before that …

He didn't have to wander far within his stampeding imagination to know what it was. House's upcoming surgery had him in much the same mental state as it did Gregg. Wilson had never considered himself to be someone who was easily spooked by harbingers of evil, or premonitions of disaster. He had to admit though, that he was deeply concerned about House's recent encounters with the dark side. Never before had he seen House succumb to panic episodes the way he had done recently; not once, but

twice.

House dreamed that the dog died violently, and it had rattled him to the core. They were all disturbingly aware that the procedure about to be performed on Gregg's crippled leg was the same one that had been used on Bobby when the program was brand new and wildly experimental.

It had now come to the fore that although it had worked well with the dog originally, and three diverse people later on, there had also been two failures. No one had mentioned whether or not the "failures" still survived, but Wilson assumed they had, since nothing had been mentioned to the contrary.

He was certain no one was hiding anything. If they were, they would have found it impossible to obtain a grant from the Science Foundation or funding from the watchdog Federal Government. He wondered whether the early history of the pain program had anything to do with the dream about the death of the dog that had traumatized Gregg nearly to the point of wanting to back out of it all. He hoped not, but he suspected, of course that that was indeed the case. House never did anything by half-measures.

Wilson sighed and reached for his sweat pants and the soft-soled moccasins. He would not sleep now, and it would be useless to try. He went into the bathroom and relieved himself, then left his room and started down the corridor in the direction of H-#1. If nothing else, he could check on his friend and make sure that he was able to sleep, and that the resumption of the Vicodin intake was keeping him relatively pain free.

He looked at his watch in the dim light of the corridor and was surprised to find that it was already 2:30 in the morning. Damn! He was getting his days and nights mixed up. It was the second night in a row that he'd found himself prowling around after midnight.

In the meantime he drew and expelled a deep breath and kept walking.

Wilson paused at the door to House's room and stood looking in. Leaning on the doorjamb, he swept his gaze across the bed where House lay sleeping beneath a rumpled sheet. He looked at ease and free from discomfort. Wilson knew that that was because after two months without his drug of choice, the Vicodin's impact was strong and powerful again, and House's pain had retreated beneath its strength. If he stayed on it, however, it would soon lose its impact and go right back to giving him very little benefit.

A movement in shadow near the partition at the back of the room drew Wilson's attention, and he moved around the corner of the doorway to get a better look. Bart Kirkpatrick was moving into the open space between the partition and House's bed. His right hand lingered momentarily at the edge of the wooden upright, and from there he could judge the angle and distance of the space he needed to traverse. His hand let go of the wood and he walked slowly, but confidently, across the floor.

Wilson took two steps into the room, and at the same time saw Bart's head tilt a fraction to the right. He knew he'd given himself away. The blind man was uncanny. Wilson could see the slight upturn at the corner of the old man's mouth, and the glint of the dim light off his snowy hair. Bart reached out his hand and touched the IV stanchion at the head of House's bed. He approached the bed frame in the same manner as a sighted person.

"Hello, son," Bart whispered pleasantly. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?"

"Uh … nosir," Wilson replied. "I guess I'm kinda locked in to watching out for him when he's having a hard time of it …"

"Not like anyone ever noticed …" Bart teased.

"Didn't think it was that obvious …"

Bart buried a chuckle into his white scrub shirt. "A blind man could smell it on you," he replied kindly. "This guy has you wrapped around his little finger."

The two of them drew up chairs by the bed and sat for a time watching the object of their attention as he slept. "He let me look at his face earlier …" Bart said after a time.

"What?"

"Remember … ? I told him I'd take a look at his ugly face later. Well, awhile ago he asked if I still wanted a look."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And … ?"

"So I did. He has an interesting face. Not quite as homely as I thought he'd be. Could use some extra calories in his diet though. High cheek bones. Classic brow arch, and a narrow chin. Greek nose and a Swede's mouth. His whole facial structure is an amalgamation of Caucasian Classic. He has Englishmen and Irishmen in his ancestry, hasn't he?"

Wilson paused to consider the old man's words. He had honestly never given House's lineage a thought before. "I have no idea …"

"And you …" Bart went on, warming to the subject. "You have the music of the South Seas deep in you. There is the lilt of Trinidad and Tobago somewhere long ago in your background. I sense you have soft skin and dark, deep-set eyes. You have gentle hands and a ready smile and a kind heart. But I know you are not a pushover. You are a match for him … your Yin to his Yang, so to speak. He is the pitcher and you are the catcher. It is a study in contrast. You keep a tight rein on your own intellect … in deference to his."

Wilson could think of nothing to say, and so he said nothing. He considered the old man's words and thought about the fact that most of what Bart had said was very close to being accurate. He decided that if he indeed projected such an image to strangers as that which the old man described, then that wasn't so bad …

After a time, Bart changed the subject and resumed his conversational musings. "He'll be all right, you know. He's a courageous man … and a strong one. He would not have survived this long if he were not. It is difficult to live with pain such as he has been forced to live with. His kind of pain produces stress that often results in increased blood pressure, alterations in hormones, depression, fatigue … attention deficit … thoughts of suicide …

"Gregory House is a survivor, but you know that already. No matter what eventually comes of the procedure they will undertake for him tomorrow, they will not harm him, you know. Kip, Earl, Bill … they've all been where he's been. They understand his pain in a manner that you or I can't relate to. That's why he's been called an addict. That's why he is so dependent on the medication. He has nowhere left to go, and that is why he must risk this procedure. Do you understand, son?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand it. I always understood, I think, but I followed the herd. I talked the talk, but couldn't walk the walk. He knew. He knew I would continue to follow all the rules … expect him to kick the habit and get off the pain pills that gave him the strength to keep going. I ignored all the signs, and he paid the price. But it's not like that anymore.

I'll never ignore him again."

They parted at 4:00 a.m., each to his own bed, each to his own thoughts. Wilson slept deeply, free from guilt at last, and Bart lay on his bed, content with the silence of the night.

At 8:00 a.m. they wheeled Gregg House out of his room to the OR.

It was time.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

165


	32. Chapter 32

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Two -

"Horses and Zebras Galloping"

They were there to get him at 8:00 a.m., just as they said they would be. He hadn't had breakfast yet, and let them know it. They laughed at him … Earl, Bill, Bart and Kip … and they said something smartass about not wanting to be puked on during the surgery.

His attitude had done a complete about-face from the day before, and he actually seemed eager for the procedure to begin. They told him he could have anything to eat that his little heart desired … _after_ the nanocite implants … and until then it might be a good idea if he would just "button his beak!" He would probably be a little too groggy and a little too sore to be hungry by that time anyway.

He shrugged and shut up. His facial expression remained neutral. His breathing, however, was ragged.

Standing to the side, Wilson studied his friend closely and knew without a doubt that House was covering up another wave of returning pain. He looked across to the others, their attention elsewhere, talking quietly amongst themselves and pointing to a printout of something that looked almost like a football game playbook. Then he glanced over at Bartholomew Kirkpatrick and deduced that Gregg was not fooling the blind man either, not in the least.

Scowling, Bart reached across and placed his hand firmly around House's forearm. Wilson walked over to them both and touched Bart's shoulder with his own, letting Bart know he was there, and acknowledging that the old man had indeed guessed the truth. On the bed, Gregory House played his gaze between the two of them, knowing he had been busted again, but absolutely unwilling to give voice to that kind of complaint. He was much too close to liberation to allow attention to be focused on how much he hurt.

"Did someone attend to your foot this morning, Gregg?" Bart asked.

"Yeah," House answered. "About six o'clock, I think."

Bart recognized the opening and took it. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

House nodded. "Yeah …" The word faded off into a quiet gasp.

His forced admission galvanized the others. Kip turned to Bill Bernard and pointed to the head of House's bed. "I think it's time to get this man over to OR and have a go at fixing his problem."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Bill agreed.

Earl took the "game plan" from Kip and laid it across his lap. He turned his wheelchair around and headed for the door. "Let's go then …" he said.

House found himself quickly disconnected from his IVs and electronic monitors hooked to the wall behind him, and just as quickly rehooked to a large battery array beneath his bed. For the present time the IV could sustain itself on gravity drip until they reached the operating theatre.

Then he was moving. Kip and Bill took the foot of the bed, pulling, while James and Bart pushed from the front, near House's head.

The trip down the hallway was fast and efficient. They arrived quickly and rehooked everything back into wall monitor sockets and fresh electrical outlets. House would not have felt the difference anyway, because the pain in his leg was spiking.

He began to arch his back in response, but someone covered the lower half of his face quickly with a clear mask, which administered nitrous oxide anesthesia. He writhed in pain no more. A beatific expression of euphoria replaced the embattled frown.

They transferred him bodily from his bed to the low operating table and stripped him of every stitch of clothing. They covered him with a sterile blanket warmed in an autoclave, and tucked it gently beneath his chin. He did not move. His breathing deepened. His eyes were closed, face becoming relaxed.

Earl moved to the bed quickly, his wheelchair just the right height to place House's bad leg directly beneath his hands. He brought with him a device that resembled a lubricating rod affixed to a long, high-pressure hose. That device, in turn, hooked into a gleaming stainless steel servo-unit on the wall. Earl flipped a switch on the rod and the wall unit began to beep rhythmically, blinking a small red signal light with every beep. A gentle hum emanated from what were obviously small electric motors within it.

At the left side of the unit, Kip Bernoski stood holding a thick cable with an electrical connection and a toggle switch. Across from him, Bill Bernard studied a clipboard displaying the printouts they had seen earlier. They waited. Everyone waited. A buzzer sounded. Kip's eyes fastened on a timer display at the front of the unit's base. When the needle reached the number "10", Bernoski hit the toggle switch and the buzzer stopped counting down …

Bernoski locked eyes with Earl Keirkgaard. "Ready number one."

Wilson stood to the side and watched, fascinated, as Earl prepared to begin the procedure. Wilson wondered how Earl was able to maintain a sterile field. As far as he could tell, no such precautions had been taken, no decontamination measures observed. James frowned, but did not interfere. While he stood there, he was aware that Bartholomew Kirkpatrick had moved closer to stand at his left shoulder, the blind man's soft, warm hand at Wilson's elbow. "Watch the tip of the rod in Earl's hand," he said.

"Tell me when you see a silver glow that lights up the end."

Wilson fixed his eyes on the tip of the rod with the concentration of a cat watching a mouse. "There!" He said.

There was a soft vibration from across the room, and the sound of the servomotors in the wall unit dropped a few decibels. Earl made a quick thrusting motion with the rod and then switched it off. The hum heightened again and returned to the rhythmic sound it had made before. The stringer wound at the upper right quadrant near House's surgical scar rippled beneath the skin like a miniature ocean wave. They could see the muscle respond for a moment, and then the rod bucked, Earl backed it away again, and just that quickly the gleam of silver was gone, leaving the tip of the rod clean and empty.

Again Bernoski flipped the toggle on the electrical conduit. Bill Bernard moved his finger to the next in line of the calculations on the clipboard and nodded his head to Kip. The unit beeped, the red light blinked and the buzzer sounded. The pressure gauge moved gradually to the "10". Kip nodded to Earl and said "Ready #2."

The servomotors engaged; Earl poised the rod over the lower left quadrant of House's scar, made the thrust. The servos changed in pitch and then resumed. Again, House's leg muscle surged, the rod bucked, and Earl backed it away.

Twice more the strange procedure made the muscles quiver beneath the skin of House's thigh, and each time Wilson knew a prescribed number of nanocites had been loosed toward the damaged nerves of Gregory House's ruined leg.

What would they do for him? What would they do _to_ him? Would he one day walk without pain? Would he be able to get a night's sleep without waking and having to bury his face in the pillow to keep from crying out in agony?

When the apparatus was finally removed from the operating table, the IVs were all withdrawn. Monitors were rolled away from Gregg House's bed, and James Wilson found that he was astounded House would need them no longer. Even the Foley and its accouterments had been gently withdrawn and whisked quickly to disposal. Earl looked up and grinned at Kip and Bill, then turned to Wilson, standing with Bart, whose hand rested on his forearm.

"It went well," Earl said. "They're in. They went directly to the site and are working. Soon they'll begin to reproduce, and then they should attach to his damaged nerve endings and give Gregg his first real relief from pain in … how many years did you say?"

"Going on ten …" Wilson whispered. He found that the lump in his throat was trying to choke off his voice. "Tell me why he isn't hooked to some kind of monitoring device. All the IVs are gone … no BP, no heart monitors … I don't understand."

Earl's grin widened. He pointed to the rear of the room where the wall of electronic devices Wilson had seen before were located.

"Lillian Chan and her Techies are back there," he said. " 'Talking to the children' as we call it. The probes are programmed into the computers. We've been working on them for two days, and Lillian has set them up to Gregg's exact specs. These probes will work on no one but Gregg, and he doesn't need monitoring any longer. The little devils are doing it for us.

"By this time tomorrow he can probably get into a wheelchair and begin to move around. If it weren't for the damn wound on his foot, we might have let him up on crutches … but we can't take the chance of a bump and having the foot reinjured. He _will_ need to exercise the leg, but you can help him to do it manually; just a series of bend-straighten movements so he doesn't lock up.

"A week from now he'll be walking around on his own. Crutches, of course. But when the ulcer finally heals, he can go back on his cane again … only this time he'll be using it mostly for balance and to compensate for the missing muscle in his thigh.

"That's something the nanocites can't cure … sorry."

Wilson shook his head. "This is … astounding. There's no way I can possibly find the right words to say thanks. If this works for him, I may even get back the best friend I knew before his infarction. I'm not sure if I could ever get used to seeing him with a smile on his face though …"

"Screw you, Wilson!"

The words came from the low bed, and they looked at House, already half recovered from his round with the nitrous oxide. He was not exactly smiling pleasantly, but there was a familiar smirk playing around his mouth, and he was lifting the edge of the blanket to peer down at his leg.

"I'd sure appreciate it if somebody brought me a pair of pants," he growled. "I'm freakin' _naked!"_

Wilson sighed.

Bart snickered.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

168


	33. Chapter 33

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Three -

"Following the Path of Least Resistance"

They accommodated him with suppressed grins as they provided him with the "pants" he'd requested: old-fangled "tighty whitey" Jockey shorts. He refused all their good-natured offers of assistance, for they knew his leg was "dead in the water" at that moment. They chuckled as they watched his contortions under the blanket while he grunted to himself and struggled unhappily to pull them on.

He emerged slowly after a minute or so, like a turtle coming out of its shell, and glared up at them menacingly. His hair was filled with static electricity and spiked on his head as though it had just survived a battle with a blender.

He scowled at each amused face. _"WHAT?"_

"Feel better?" Kip Bernoski wanted to know. He stood with fists planted on hips, and he was the only one able to keep a straight face. Wilson was the last to turn his back and cover his mouth with his hand.

"No!" Came the retort. "I can't feel my leg, and I can't move it. And you can't expect me to get out of this bed with a dead leg and muck around in nothing but a pair of jockey shorts …"

"What makes you think you're getting out of bed?" Kip asked calmly.

"Yeah, Dude …" Earl echoed. He swung his chair around with another grin plastered across his face.

"You _said_ I could!" The six-year-old was back in full force, and the whine in his voice was House-typical.

"Gregg …" Earl's grin disappeared and his tone took on an air of no-nonsense. "Not yet. There's a good reason why you can't feel your leg … or move it."

House took a breath to launch a retort, but Earl maneuvered his wheelchair closer to the bedside. He reached out to the rumpled blanket and straightened its sagging contours across Gregg's body as a prelude to a lecture. His left hand rose to his lips, index and middle fingers held vertical in the universal signal for silence. House closed his mouth and stared, looking down at himself and the suddenly neat blanket that covered him.

"If you'll calm down and be quiet for a minute, I'll explain to you why not." Earl waited while House scowled impatiently, but schooled the snark from his face to listen grudgingly.

"The procedure we just performed on your leg was a major operation. Make no mistake about it. You're an expert at what you do, and we understand that. But this technology is brand new. There are guidelines we _must_ follow if it is to succeed. In this respect, Gregg, it's _we_ who are the experts here … not you. We need you to do exactly as we tell you, because we all want this to work. Will you trust us to do everything we can for you?"

House went silent for a few moments. Earl saw his focus dim while he sat still and considered the words. Then the blue eyes raised and met Earl's own with the realization that the man was asking for his trust and cooperation … not demanding it. He relented. "I trust you," he said quietly.

Earl nodded. "Thank you." He looked around the room at the others. He had their attention as well. He placed his hand for a moment on Gregg's bare shoulder. "Are you warm enough? If not, someone can get you a shirt."

"I'm fine," House answered. Stock reply.

"Okay. Now lie very still for a few moments, and concentrate on your leg. By this time, you should be experiencing something like a series of small tics beneath the skin of your thigh. Let me know when you can feel it …"

House quieted instantly, eyes wide, lips pursed in concentration. At first he said nothing, waiting for the sensations he'd been told to watch for. A silent interval passed while everyone froze in place as though to make a noise would frighten the phenomenon away.

Then House's brow furrowed. "Wow! Worms! … tiny worms crawling beneath my skin. It kind'a tickles. The way a pregnant woman feels when her fetus first begins to move within her womb …"

"Exactly," Earl said. "That's normal. It may accelerate for a time, but after awhile it will die down. Your 'nano-children' are doing their jobs."

House was still concentrating on the sensations. His eyes were open and staring into the distance, mouth still set and unmoving. From time to time he would wince, as though from pain, but the furrows that moved between his eyes were not the same. It was a delayed progression of a brand new sense of wonder. His hands lay upon his stomach, fingers curled, grasping the edge of the blanket, lifting it, peering down there again. The others could not tell whether he was simply fascinated or frightened out of his wits. The movement of his features made it a tossup.

Finally, Wilson grew restless with waiting. He closed in at the other side of the bed and stood looking down on Gregg's left shoulder. "Hey …"

The answer came back immediately. "Hey Wilson … you survivin' this okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Beginning to think I may have made the right choice here …"

The others were learning to interpret the way he expressed things. Learning about the way things worked with Gregory House. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that the man had, twice, handed them the highest compliment, the most profuse statement of gratitude of which he was capable. They all read the sincerity in the depths of his eyes, and they understood.

Rather than linger in the moment until it turned to discomfort for them all, those who were finished with their parts in the procedure turned to leave, and only Bill Bernard, Bart Kirkpatrick and James Wilson remained.

"Jim," Bill said, with a gleam in his eye, "would you like to help me with the cleanup in here?"

Wilson shot him a puzzled look. "Of course … but what?"

"First," Bill replied, "we have to get this shy child into some clothing he can live with!"

He grinned at House, who had at least the grace to look embarrassed.

"Still pickin' on the cripple …" he grumbled.

Bill laughed. "Play that card while you still can, Gregg. Don't know how much longer you can get away with it …"

House smiled. His body was more relaxed, finally. His hands were open at his sides and the original look of startled shock had gone from his features. He was still aware of the changes taking place in his thigh, but he was also becoming more comfortable with it.

"You'd be surprised," he said at last, "what a man with a limp and a cane can get away with …"

"Tell me about it!" Wilson muttered under his breath.

"First two things we have to take care of …" Bill Bernard said, effectively ignoring their teasing, "are placing a proper bandage on your leg, and doing another antibiotic flush and treatment to your foot. Just because the procedure is finished now, we don't dare neglect anything that can set back your recovery. Then we'll help you into some loose clothing and get you settled in your own room." He paused a moment, then turned and snapped his fingers. "One more thing … how is your hand? Still hurt?"

House had fixed his attention on the words, "your own room", and was momentarily distracted when asked how the laceration on his left hand was faring. He turned it around and stared at the heel of his hand as though he had forgotten it was there. He squinted at Bernard and shrugged blandly. "It's fine," he said. "Why?"

"Think it's ready for the stitches to be removed?"

"Sure … why not … while you're torturing me with the rest of it, you may as well torture me with that too." He stared at Bernard wide-eyed. Bill could not be sure whether he was serious or not.

Wilson shook his head and rolled his eyes. "House, he breathed, "you are a skunk!"

Bernard cut the stitches expertly with a pair of surgical scissors while Wilson steadied House's hand. He used tiny pinchers to jerk them loose and out of the skin in three deft strokes. Tiny droplets of blood appeared at the removal sites, which Bill daubed with antiseptic and then covered with a small bandage and taped it into place.

The bandage on House's thigh took a little longer. The area had bled slightly from the four small wounds, and the skin was darkened with angry bruising. They wiped away the red smudges gently and covered the site with a large sterile pad slathered with antiseptic cream. Wilson wrapped the leg carefully with a wide elastic bandage that reached from his knee to just below his hip.

"This stays on for a day or two!" Bernard said firmly as he took two large bed pillows from Bart who held them out to him. They raised his leg and quickly shoved them under, bending his knee slightly. "How's that? Feel anything pulling in there that shouldn't be pulling?"

"Nope," House told him. "I still have the creepy-crawlies a little, but that's normal, right?"

Bill nodded. "Uh huh. Are you ready for us to tend to your foot?"

"Yeah … no getting out of it, I guess. Earl said it was 'a mess' yesterday. How's it look now?"

Bernard grinned. "Looks like a colony of pissants got in there and set off a pissant-size atomic bomb!"

"Thanks for the graphic mind pictures," House grumped. "Get on with it, willya?"

They took it easy with him, knowing that the absence of pain in his thigh would certainly exacerbate the pain of the saline solution, the antiseptics and the flushing of the wound in his foot. Even after the Lidocaine treatment he held himself aloof, staring at the ceiling tiles with avid concentration. They knew they were hurting him.

When they finished, they padded the wound with care and bandaged the foot with wide adhesive tape. Wilson removed the spent supplies and disposed of them in the biohazard waste. Then, after sterilizing everything else, he walked back to join the others.

Bill Bernard had left to attend to other duties and check in with Earl Keirkgaard. Bart remained close to House's head, his palm cupped gently over House's shoulder. It was becoming a familiar stance for the old man. Wilson wondered just what manner of other strange things Bart could determine about someone with his laying on of hands.

House was tired. He had withstood the nanocite procedure well, but the strain had taken a lot out of him. His physical condition had not been the best even before he'd taken on his 600-mile odyssey, and the difficulties he had endured showed in the pallor of his skin and the gauntness of his grizzled face. It worried Wilson, who mentioned it to Bart.

Bart, in turn, suggested they help Gregg into comfortable bed attire and call Kip to assist in moving him to his own quarters where he could rest and take the time he needed to recover.

A set of much-worn, soft blue scrubs with woven collar and cuffs fit the bill perfectly, and they helped him put them on. Afterward, Bart stood close by Gregg's shoulder again and paused to squint speculatively into the distance.

"May I make a suggestion?" He asked at last.

They both looked at him, waiting. Bart heard the silence, felt their eyes upon him, and smiled. "I can feel your little wheels turning …" he said.

When they still made no comment, he decided to say what he was thinking. "You boys have been friends a long time, haven't you?"

"Yeah … we have," Wilson admitted. "Why?"

"Well … what if I told you I believe it would be a good idea to have Kip and Wilson and me put your bed in the same room as Wilson's? Neeka told me that all your stuff got delivered to Wilson's room anyway, so it would all be right there. As it stands now, it's sound reasoning that you not be left on your own …"

They were not talking, not confirming or denying the wisdom of his words. He was mildly amused with the fact that he could almost picture in his mind the eye conversation in which they were engaging at that moment. He smiled broadly, then spoke again. "No one would have to keep interrupting your rest to go in and check on you at all hours. Jimmy would already be there if you felt sick, or experienced pain or needed anything. He'd be right there to help you to the bathroom and assist with your other personal needs."

Bart hesitated a moment. "I don't want to butt in where I'm not wanted, but it makes sense to me, and the two of you would know better than anyone else when Gregg is ready to take the next step in his recovery."

He paused, waiting for them to say something. "What do you think?"

"Have you found something within him that you're not telling us about?" Wilson asked quietly.

Bart paused, giving nothing away. "I have found that he is still tired beyond measure. He is a stubborn idiot, and he is in dire need of more rest. You can make sure that he does. It's up to you not to allow him to manipulate you."

Wilson had no doubts Bart was speaking to him "Leave it to me," he said.

"Nobody bothered to ask _me!"_ House complained.

"With good reason," Wilson told him. "You're bunking with me, like it or not."

00000000

That's where they took Gregory House. When Kip Bernoski arrived to assist, they rolled his gurney down the long corridor to Wilson's quarters. A bed had already been set up and supplied with fresh linens and pillows.

Shaniqua was waiting for them. It was easy for the four of them to assist him in getting comfortable with his new surroundings. They spoke to him softly as they helped him settle back against the pillows. He wasn't listening. His eyes had fastened briefly on the red necktie that hung haphazardly from the middle of the mirror on the dresser. He smiled to himself with slowly fading satisfaction.

House was drifting toward sleep. The ravenous hunger he had bitched loudly about that morning was the last thing on his mind. His foot still bothered him, and he wanted only to drift toward oblivion and get through the pain. He was used to that.

Shaniqua Tolliver shooed the men from the room, admonishing them to get out of there while the opportunity presented itself. "Go get some lunch. Have some coffee or iced tea, and relax while y'awl can. This baby boy will be a pain in the butt to look after for the next twenty-four hours or so. Y'awl will need reinforcements to cope with him while he gets used to the new and unfamiliar changes in his body. It should be interesting for all of us."

They did not argue with her. Not even Wilson. For the moment, House looked relaxed and comfortable. He would not stay that way long. Silently they trooped from the room.

Neeka pulled the only chair up to Gregg's bed and sat very near to his side. It was crowded in the room now, for they had positioned his bed as close to the entrance of the bathroom as they could get it. In addition, a high-tech black wheelchair had been brought in and was standing in the corner.

Neeka reached her hand across to grasp House's limp fingers with hers, holding it loosely, not disturbing the small bandage Bill had placed over the cut on his palm. She reached up and smoothed back his flyaway hair, and then drew her soft brown fingers very gently over his cheek and down past his chin.

"Y'awl're gonna be jus' fine, baby boy. Y'awl're gonna be jus' fine …"

A little "in" and a little "out" of consciousness, House squirmed mentally within his cobwebby mind:

_I'm not a goddamned baby boy! I'll 'baby boy' you, old girl! Paybacks are gonna be So-o-o …_

00000000

In the corridor just outside the room, a soft movement blurred against the silence and the neutral shadows of the long, empty space. The apparition leaned its head around the open doorframe …

Bobby stood patiently, panting and looking into the room, ears perked and watching in the direction of the silent man on the bed. When would any of the humans pay some attention to him? After a few moments he plopped down on the carpeting and rested his muzzle on his one remaining forepaw.

He was tired … the same kind of tired as the human who had inexplicably drawn his attention …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

176


	34. Chapter 34

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Four -

"Best Kept Secret"

Lillian Chan used an intricate, ultrahigh-demand specialty board for everything she did on her computer.

As far as computers were concerned, this one was not a hybrid, but more of a "mongrel" in its technology, in order to have it adapt to her unique usage. It had been specifically built to her recommendations using components from Dell, Gateway, HP, Panasonic, IBM, Sony, and a few others. Her motherboard and hard drive were both by Cray. That renowned corporation donated their famous products happily when their board of directors discovered Lillian's living circumstances and her technological genius.

Lillian accomplished ninety-nine per cent of her life's work within a seven-foot circle of multi-electronics: servomotors, slave units, wall-mounted monitors, towers-of-power, printers, faxes, photographic sensors, stereo speakers, earphones and buzzers and tiers of blinking lights, each hooked to miles of wires and cables, fastened to the floors, the walls and the ceilings. The cockpit of a new 787 had fifty-or-so fewer telltales and switches.

Dual rows of elongated levers and oversized pushbuttons, all numbered and lettered, were controlled with relays she could reach easily by nodding her head or blinking her eyes. Thousands of printouts scrolled across her monitors and she sorted them out like dirty laundry, tossing them into the appropriate folders as nonchalantly as a child empties his toy box onto the floor. Aural relays bounced through her earphones or speakers, and she activated them, deactivated them, and controlled them all with minimal thrusts of her chin.

Lillian's greatest source of pride, however, was a small, alien-looking black, rectangular metal box, humming with electronic components and suffused with its own array of lights, bells and whistles. It was her own contrivance. Her own invention. It was a monstrosity. It was small enough to hook to the front of her wheelchair, but large enough to incorporate a multitude of tiny servos and master-to-slave units. She rested her chin upon a small sounding board, and she was joyfully experimenting with miniature bioelectrical and biochemical leads for programming the thing as a keyless piano. Would the bugs cooperate? She was determined to find out if nanocites could have fun too …

In the days before she'd finally told her colleagues what it was she was tinkering around with in her spare time, Lillian kept her own counsel and worked daily on its complicated programming. The first time she was able to produce a C Major chord, she was so happy there were tears in her eyes. But it had to be better than that before she revealed her secret.

"God! I could certainly use a couple handfuls of fingers here that actually worked!"

The thing may have read her mind, and then arbitrarily did as it pleased.

Sometimes it shut down without warning after blurting out a series of sour notes that sounded more like a wounded elephant. When that happened, she would have to wait for Earl to be available to troubleshoot. She would wait impatiently and go back to her nanotech duties. Earl would arrive on the scene, smile to himself at her folly and resolve the mystery of the burned-out components. He indulged her because he loved her dearly. Everyone did!

There was, indeed, a little maple spinet in the front office-reception area where Shaniqua Tolliver sometimes pounded out old-time gospel songs. But a real piano in the labs? No way! As a quadriplegic, Lillian could not possibly have played one anyway. Even that didn't change the fact of the pleasing sounds that sometimes whispered through the quiet corridors during unguarded moments late at night. Even Bobby would pause, perk his ears and listen. Everyone decided it was just somebody's radio set too damn close to the ventilation system again.

Lillian's colleagues gradually learned that she had an off-hours hobby. They had heard her at the strangest times, somehow playing notes on a piano where there _was_ no piano; taking time to unwind from her difficult precision work with a few stolen strains of genius-magic that gave her … and anyone who listened … pleasure … at least until the components burned out again.

A chance excursion by Bart Kirkpatrick one night at midnight to his and Bill's quarters, took him past Lab #2. He paused, listening intently with his hand lying gentle against the door. _"Moonlight Cocktails"_, the old Glenn Miller song from his early youth, reached his ears in soft strains.

He knocked, and then entered. He could not hear her. The music had stopped. She was sitting still and silent. He paused again, waiting, and then he could feel her excitement mounting in the surrounding air, and in the depths of her concentration. "I think I have it, Bart. Would you like to hear my piano?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Yes." Unmistakable soft piano music suffused the crannies of the room with waves of enchantment. Bart was fascinated.

Lillian welcomed him to her inner sanctum, "showed" him the sounding board that produced the musical notes, and explained to him how she had dictated the construction of so many components into a working "whole". Earl Keirkgaard had put the original black box together under her guidance, she told him, although Earl had no idea what it was that her intellect, combined with his skillful fingers, would conjure. She believed Earl thought she was crazy.

"Oh Bart … I'm beginning to feel like the 'Six Million Dollar Man'," she told him. He thought she sounded like a giddy schoolgirl.

Bart, however, knew there was nothing crazy about what he was hearing. He listened to Lillian speak of the project she loved, and was very deeply moved. He didn't understand it either, but that made no difference. A difference that made no difference _was_ no difference! … or so he had heard it said somewhere …

Later, with Lillian's permission, Bart laid his hands upon her shoulders and grew very quiet for a time. His mind found a union with her mind, and he "saw" Lillian play her piano. She saw the dawning of his comprehension. He encircled her thin shoulders with his warm embrace and rested his chin against her carotid pulse. Bart understood.

Thereafter they were kindred spirits.

00000000

Lillian looked forward eagerly to giving a full demonstration of her "piano" for Gregory House, mostly because she had become fascinated with him. Bart had recently told her that the good doctor was quite an accomplished pianist himself, and she had become particularly impressed with Dr. House because he was out of the ordinary, although on a different plane, for much the same reason she was.

Lillian had monitored House very closely while he endured the transition of the nanocites into his fragile-appearing body. She could feel his apprehension through her monitors, and knew he didn't hold much hope for any reduction in his pain. She had also felt the wonder and the exhilaration he'd experienced when the misery in his leg began to taper off and then dissipate completely while he rested there.

She watched the monitors as they showed the stress diminishing from his heart rate; saw the actual lowering of his blood pressure and the reduction in the intensity of his harsh breathing patterns. He did not have to fight the pain anymore, and he was almost holding his breath, awaiting its return.

But his pain did not return.

Lillian went with Earl Keirkgaard, and the two of them sat in their wheelchairs at the entrance to the quarters shared by Gregory House and James Wilson. They sat and watched the man for whom they had worked a miracle, as he slept, unencumbered and undisturbed, for the first time in how long??? Going on ten years?

His friend James sat on his own bed and talked with them awhile, a large foolish smile riding roughshod over his boyish features.

00000000

Gregg awoke Wednesday evening while Wilson and Bernard were tending to his foot and conversing quietly. He squinted through sleep-clogged eyes and glared at them. His upper torso was bare, and he wondered where hell the blue scrubs had gone.

"First, I was under the impression that this place was into the eradication of pain, rather than the prolongation of it. Second, would you please hold the chatter down to a dull roar? And third, I'm starving. Doesn't anyone ever feed a hungry man around here? And what the hell did you do with my clothes _this _time?"

Wilson paused with a strip of adhesive tape in one hand. He straightened to full height and dangled the tape in House's face. "If I were you, I might want to keep quiet until we're finished, or you _could_ find this stuff across your mouth instead of across your foot! We'll get you dressed again in a few minutes. You drooled on the shirt and got blood on the pants."

House huffed dramatically, but relaxed back into his pillows. He threw his forearm across his face to hide what might have been a smirk.

"But Maw-awmmm … !"

As usual, he'd gotten the last word. He finally got his supper at 9:00 p.m.

00000000

Lillian Chan and Bartholomew Kirkpatrick relaxed together in Lab #2. Lillian's chin danced gracefully upon her little sounding board, and the strains of "_Moonlight Cocktails"_ wafted across the rafters above them.

In the darkness of the room, task lights of all colors cascaded like summer fireworks against the exposed roof timbers. Touching shoulders and watching the display (in essence) together, they both laughed with delight.

In their minds, they were dancing …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

179


	35. Chapter 35

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Five -

"The Smallest Gifts"

It rained all night Wednesday night. Thunder and lightning infused the Paramar Clinic with macabre shadows that lit the windows like portals to another universe and sent ghostly, jagged images across the walls, the ceilings and the floors.

One particularly loud clap of thunder followed a lightning strike that hit uncomfortably close by. The concussion woke Wilson from a sound sleep and sat him straight up in bed as though he were on springs. He sat confused for a few moments, not sure what had frightened the hell out of him. Then lightning struck again, followed by another clap of thunder, and a sheet of rain that lashed the window with a fury that made the sash rattle.

Wilson ran his fingers through his mop of baby fine hair, threw his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up. He raised both arms above his head and stretched upward like a sleek jungle cat, shoulder and back muscles bare and gleaming in the ghostly light. Wide-awake now, he walked over to the window and looked out. The parking lot gleamed beneath the arc lights like a miniature lake, raindrops hitting the asphalt and splattering outward like tiny water-filled balloons. No fit night for man or beast. He reached to the back of his neck and rubbed the corded muscles, then turned around and padded back to the bed.

Movement from the other side of the room drew his attention and he paused looking, making sure House was okay. In the strobe-like lightning strokes and the light from the window, Wilson saw a sight he hadn't witnessed in years. Gregg House was sighing in his sleep, curled on his right side, oblivious to the storm. Both knees were drawn up toward his body, one arm under his pillow and the opposite hand open and relaxed beneath his chin.

Wilson stood and stared, suddenly grinning. House's crippled leg was on the bottom, and House wasn't writhing in pain. All that guesswork had somehow produced a miracle. The large bandage that covered the surgical scar and the small insertion wounds was still held in place by the elastic bandage that encircled his thigh, but the leg was mobile. The foot with the decubitus ulcer rested on its side, padded bandage still in place, off the pillow and flat on the sheet. House's other foot lay relaxed beside it.

James Wilson stood for a long time, just looking and marveling at the changes that had taken place in the short passage of time they'd been there. Four days. About to begin the fifth. Gregory House's chronic pain was a thing of the past.

_My God!_

Wilson got back into bed and lay down again. He pulled a pillow beneath his head and flopped over onto his left side. From there he had a clear view of House, snoring away like a happy rhinoceros, comfortable and free from pain. Wilson lay watching as though the image would suddenly fly away and everything would be back to the way it was before.

House had been sleeping a lot lately, Wilson thought. The meds and IVs he'd been using had much to do with it, of course. But he hadn't even had a Vicodin all day. Except for the Lidocaine injections when they tended to his foot, House was completely drug free. Wilson believed the reason for the extra sleeping might stem from all those years when it had been impossible for the man to experience more than a few short hours of rest before being awakened yet again by mini-spasms and the relentless pain in the ruined leg.

Wilson sighed with relief. He wondered what it would be like being around a House who was not in constant pain … not pacing the hallways of the hospital in an effort to tame the demons and extinguish the fires.

He smiled to himself, knowing that with a restless spirit like Gregory House anywhere near, not that much would change. House was, after all, House! James often wondered just exactly what the hell he'd meant the first time he'd ever said that. Once he'd said it though, _everybody_ said it! House was a world unto himself, a surging maelstrom of haphazard contradictions, and a one-man crowd.

Wilson went back to sleep, finally, letting the thunder and the lightning and the driving rain fade into the background. He relaxed into the assurance that the force of nature outside the windows of Paramar Clinic didn't hold a candle to the one in the bed across the room.

Morning light brought with it a continuation of the wind and the rain, although the electrical storm of the night before was drastically diminished.

House was already awake and sitting up against the head of his bed, grumbling about being hungry, having to pee, and rubbing at his right ankle, bitching that his foot hurt.

Wilson struggled to get his eyes focused, then sighed and looked across at his friend. House had removed the elastic bandage from around his thigh, obviously wanting to get a closer look at the massive surgical scar and check for himself the sites where the nanocite injections had gone beneath his skin.

His bed looked as though a professional wrestling match had taken place on it. The wound dressings, along with the fresh scrub pants he'd discarded during the night, were tossed in a heap and tangled up with the top sheet. House sat boldly in his underwear; not at all shy and retiring over his near-nakedness as he had been the day before. But his hand rested near the instep of his wounded foot, and Wilson could tell it hurt him. He wondered if the man would ever find complete release from pain …

"House? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay, dammit! My foot hurts like hell, I have to piss like a racehorse, and nobody has bothered to feed me in weeks!"

Wilson squinched his eyes shut and shook his head in exasperation. He was taking notice that House was beginning to behave like a baby bird. Every moment he was awake, he was bitching that he was hungry, and that simple fact in itself belied any serious problems with his overall health. Baby birds were insatiable … and if they were _not_ insatiable, they soon got kicked out of the nest to die. This baby bird was very much alive and chirping! It tickled Wilson no end.

That he had to pee must certainly be true, because he had not been able to go to the bathroom since being relieved (relative term there, Wilson thought with a small smile) of the Foley rig the evening before. He probably not only had to pee, but he was also probably backed up like the floodgates in the dike of Amsterdam.

That there was pain in his foot, Wilson had no doubt. The ulcer was healing, but the internal pressure of such a wound often caused continuous throbbing that needed tending on a regular basis to keep the sufferer from literally wanting to climb the walls.

Wilson got out of bed and walked over to House's side of the room. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and reached over to pull his friend's hand away from his ankle. "I guess we should tend to first things first then," he said with a grin. "We drain the lizard first, and then fix the foot. After that, somebody might feed you … if you behave yourself."

One of House's stock "looks" was RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION in capital letters, and he turned it upon Wilson full throttle.

"If I _behave_ myself? Wilson, how could you? I'm hurt. I hurt! I can't walk … and I need to go to the damn bathroom before my bladder explodes like a fireplug at a five-alarmer …"

Wilson was still smiling, trying to be sympathetic, but not succeeding very well. He was still so giddy from knowing the pain in House's leg was gone, that further complaints from this whiny six-year-old just did not have the same impact.

He got to his feet and held out a hand. "Swing your legs over here and let me get you under your shoulder. I'll take most of your weight so you can hop into the bathroom. It's only a few steps. Just be careful that you don't put your foot down. If you do, it could open the wound again and screw up everything. Got that?"

House grunted something under his breath and nodded, moving across gingerly so Wilson could position himself to take House's weight at the edge of the bed.

Laboriously, House stood up, right foot hanging limp, useless, throbbing, leaning his weight almost completely on Wilson's willing strength. He was surprised at how weak he was. The last time he had stood on his own was the Friday before when he had left the diner in Chase City sometime before noon. He suddenly remembered riding in a fog of pain to finally alight, only half conscious, at the clinic where friendly hands had taken him in and given him shelter.

And Wilson was there. Wilson was _always_ there …

House gulped and hitched a breath in his throat. He nearly lost what was left of his balance, and stumbled, groping.

Wilson had him, both arms shoring him up, sharp words of warning stabbing cruelly at his consciousness. "Don't lose it, House! Stay with me! Don't put your foot down! House! Snap out of it!"

House rallied at his friend's tone. Pulled himself back from the shroud of grayness that tried to envelope him. Raised his foot quickly before it touched the floor.

Wilson pulled down the jockey shorts, sat him on the toilet, steadied him as he relieved himself, holding onto the right ankle with his free hand.

"Thanks … didn't know I was so fuckin' … puny!"

"House, you've gotta be the biggest pain in the ass I ever met …" 

"Sorry …"

"No you're not."

"No I'm not."

By the time they'd wrestled each other out of the john and back to the bed, House was gaining strength, hopping on his own and resuming his bitching about the dire lack of sustenance and the escalating pain in his foot.

The only thing that thwarted a full-blown argument was the arrival of Kip and Shaniqua and Bill with a crash cart full of medical supplies (no one had forgotten about House's foot), and the ubiquitous three-tier serving cart loaded with mouth-watering goodies.

The "poor me" House retreated quickly into the "baby-bird-six-year-old" House.

Everyone dug into the sausage and eggs and toast and coffee with relish, talking about the damage done by the severe storm the night before. Kip said the back lot of the clinic looked as though someone had swept it clean with a broom. Poor Bobby was not even able to find a clump of tall grasses behind which to relieve himself.

House, chewing on a slice of toast and holding a forkful of eggs and sausage, frowned and looked blankly at the ring of faces around him. "What storm? Was there a storm last night?"

He managed to look affronted when they all stared at him in varying forms of disbelief. That is, all but Wilson.

After Shaniqua Tolliver left again with the teacart, Kip and Bill stayed behind to give House a physical once-over.

At times like this, Kip Bernoski was all business. He instructed House to lie down on his back so he could be examined thoroughly.

At times like this, House was all business also. He had volunteered for this, had most certainly benefited from it. Now he willingly submitted his person to Kip's gentle hands.

Bernoski donned a sterile stethoscope, surgical robe and rubber gloves.

With Bill Bernard as backup and Wilson watching closely nearby, he began an inspection palpation, percussion and auscultation. Carefully, he examined House's eyes, ears, mouth and nasal cavities. Hands-on, he continued downward, taking special care with the laceration on the left hand, pronouncing it as healing properly and assuring his patient that he would: "… certainly be able to play the violin again …"

"Hah! Slice my hand … gain a talent! What'll happen if I slice the other one?" He, of course, didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one.

Kip continued down across the bony ribcage, the shallow abdomen and the pubic arch. House stiffened beneath his hands, but did not move. When the examination reached the area of the surgical scar and the tiny wounds, Kip's examination grew more intense. He massaged the crippled leg vigorously, apologizing ahead of time if any of his movements caused pain. But House pinned him sternly with an ice-blue stare and told him to do what he had to do. "You've gotta know!"

A few times House hitched a breath and winced, and Kip paused, questioning. House smiled, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "I'm used to touches like that causing enough pain that I'd want to scream. Reflexes, I guess."

"You telling me that all this poking and prodding doesn't hurt?" Kip inquired with a grin. He finished rebandaging House's thigh, and then straightened, satisfied.

"That's what I'm tellin' ya … doesn't hurt. Just around the wounds …"

Kip grinned again. "Wonderful."

"Wish I could walk on the damned foot! I'd get up and do a dance …"

Kip snorted. "Fat chance!" He said. "If you tried that, you'd go flat on your ass. Your leg isn't healed. It's still _crippled! _All this nanobusiness did was get rid of the pain. You're gonna have to take it slow for awhile … even after your foot is healed. You

might gain a little mobility, or you might not. Don't expect miracles! Actually, I'd say you've already had your share."

House pulled a face. "Yeah … tell me about it! Thanks Kip … all you guys … thanks."

Bernoski nodded. "You're definitely welcome." He removed his stethoscope and placed it on the crash cart. "You ready for me to do your foot?"

House winced. "Yeah …" remembering the pain. Things weren't all roses just yet.

Bill administered the Lidocaine, waited for it to take effect, and then unwrapped the bandages. The wound itself was clean, the area surrounding it turning gradually to a more healthy shade, and the swelling was finally diminishing. "If you're careful, Gregg," Bill said, "you may be able to take some weight on this in a couple of weeks. It seems to me that the worse of it is about over. You're gonna still have some pain … that's pretty much unavoidable. But that should begin to ease off a little. Just don't try to rush it, okay?" He was flushing the wound with the small pump bulb, wiping the liquid away with sterile gauze pads.

House nodded, watching the procedure and trying not to wince. The Lidocaine was doing its job, and his foot no longer hurt, but the ministrations looked as though they would _like_ to hurt, and it was difficult to keep from pulling away. "Trust me," he grumbled, "now that I know what it's like to have a bed sore … I'm gonna be _damn _careful not to get another one. No more soft-soled riding boots! The soles of my next pair will be made of iron!"

Wilson, silent until now, groaned.

In the afternoon they allowed him to get dressed. Wilson helped him pull on his last pair of old blue jeans, his "Old School" tee shirt and his favorite pair of Nike Shox, only one of which could he wear. These things Wilson had pulled out of the bike's saddlebags and squirreled away in one of the drawers of the room's only dresser. House sat gingerly on the edge of his bed while Wilson eased a heavy gray sock over the thick bandage on his foot. House found it relatively easy to hop over to the wheelchair in the corner and settle himself into it. Wilson raised the right leg rest a little and slid a bed pillow beneath House's foot.

Shortly thereafter, he was running the corridors, fleeing before herds of buffalo, bearing down on Kevin Harvick in the #29 Chevrolet, and giving chase to Spiderman as he flitted along the streets of the city …

After five minutes of listening to NASCAR sound effects and wolf whistles that echoed off the walls, Wilson, clad in clean chinos and a brown tee shirt that matched his eyes, gave up and slowed to an amble. House was out pacing the corridors again, but in a different way. He was shaking the effects of nearly five days in bed and celebrating a form of freedom he hadn't known in more years than he cared to count.

Wilson couldn't compete with that. Wilson didn't _want_ to compete with that!

Down near the other end of the building, Bobby the German Shepherd, stood at the open doorway of Earl's quarters. He could hear the exuberant voice of the human as it waxed and waned along the corridor. Bobby was puzzled. The man in the wheelchair was the most puzzling creature he had ever seen, and the reason for the loud shrieks and vocal thunderings was far beyond the dog's experience. Even Tyree Tolliver did not make that much noise! Bobby was a little alarmed, and hung back from venturing any closer.

The dog had been off his feed all day, and he was queasy in the gut. Outside in the back lot this morning when it had stopped raining and he'd been let out to run, nothing was the same. The field was muddy and unfamiliar; all his favorite haunts flattened by the storm, and no longer marked with his scent. He was upset. He'd had to squat where there was no tall grass to hide behind, and it was too strange. He'd marked his territory three times, and then his pee was all gone. More strange. When he'd sniffed at it to be sure it was indeed his pee, the odor was strange too. Metallic. When he got up to move on, the liquid left behind had a faint pick twinge to it, but Bobby wouldn't have known anything about that …

After the evening meal, everyone was invited to Lab #2. The invitation had come from Bart and Lillian.

What was the occasion? Kip knew. He'd known for some time; had even let it slip once, but no one caught it. He was smiling to himself as he led the little entourage away from the main dining area to the place where Lillian Chan presided calmly over the bridge of the _Enterprise_, in a strange new world where no one had gone before …

Gregory House had tired himself out. He'd spent the entire afternoon cruising in the wheelchair; banging around from one end of the vast building to the other, exploring the places he'd heard about but was unable to visit. Today he'd managed to visit every one of them … except this one.

Lab #2 had been off limits the whole day for reasons unknown. Lillian Chan and Bart Kirkpatrick had been sequestered there, hidden away behind the glass and stainless steel partition where Lillian conducted her nanotech research, monitored the "children" and participated in some mysterious project that, up until now, remained very hush-hush.

Now the door was open, lights dimmed, and a coruscating array of multi-colored Christmas lights played across the ceiling like insects across a pond.

Gregory House was all eyes and ears. He was subdued from his frantic afternoon, and allowing Wilson to push his wheelchair. His foot hurt a little and he was babying it. Wilson knew he was sore, and he wore one of his "dammit, I told you so!" expressions. But he said nothing.

To Gregg, one of Wilson's silences was worse than one of his lectures.

Bart Kirkpatrick appeared at the edge of the partition, silvery hair backlighted by the sensor array. His face was serene, his sightless eyes shining. "We have something nice for you …"

Behind him the sound of a piano began in he background. Subdued at first, and dreamy. _"Moonlight Cocktails":_

"Couple of jiggers of moonlight and add a star,

Pour in the blue of a June night and one guitar …"

A piano where there _was_ no piano.

"Mix in a couple of dreamers and there you are:

Lovers hail the Moonlight Cocktail …"

Enchanted, James Wilson found himself grasping the handles of the wheelchair tightly with both hands. In front of him, House leaned forward. The tired head came up to attention. Gregg's eyes closed, his eyebrows lifted, and a look of near-ecstacy passed across the grizzled features.

House's dimples deepened until they were sharp and pronounced, even beneath the scruff. House's hands came off the wheelchair's armrests, fingers finding fantasy keys in the air, playing along with Lillian's piano:

"Now add a couple of flowers, a drop of dew,

Stir for a couple of hours 'til dreams come true.

Add to the number of kisses, it's up to you.

Moonlight Cocktail – need a few."

Lillian finished the song and brought the lights up.

House opened his eyes and looked around, startled, as though he'd been rudely awakened from a beautiful dream.

Someone was calling his name:

"Gregg … Gregory House!"

He looked around, then saw Wilson's finger pointing to something beyond the partition. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared into the lights.

Lillian called his name again. "Gregg!"

He felt stupid. Put on the spot. "Huh?"

There was quiet laughter surrounding him.

"Play it with me, Gregg … can you?"

He didn't understand. "What?"

"Play the song with me, will you?"

He wrinkled his nose and looked around. "How?"

Behind him the door opened. Bill Bernard and Kip Bernoski entered the room pushing the little spinet from the front reception area. It was old, but it had been polished by loving hands and gleamed beneath the lights.

"That's how …"

House looked down at his lame foot, held up his lame hand. "I don't know if I …"

"I can play with _no_ hands, Gregg. Try … as a favor to me."

He looked around. The room was silent. The very least he could do was try. The debt he owed these people was incalculable. "Wow!"

He pushed himself to the keyboard of the spinet and positioned his foot out of the way beneath it. He positioned his hands on the keyboard. "Hit it!"

"Cool it in the summer breeze,

Serve it in the starlight underneath the trees.

You'll discover tricks like these

Are sure to make your Moonlight Cocktail please.

"Follow the simple directions and they will bring

Life of another complexion where you'll be king.

You will awake in the morning and start to sing

Moonlight Cocktails are the thing."

When the song ended, the room exploded in wild applause.

Wilson helped House into bed close to midnight.

He'd tended to Gregg's foot by himself, mainly because he did not wish to subject anyone else to House's bitching about how much his hand hurt, how many times he'd banged his foot into the base of the spinet in his exuberance, how he was probably getting a migraine from staring into those freaking blinking lights … and on and on.

In his heart, Wilson was singing the words to the song and celebrating the evening in Lab #2. He wondered if House even realized …

Gregg House leaned back against his pillows and rubbed at the ache in his left hand. It didn't hurt as much as he'd let on. His foot would be throbbing as soon as the Lidocaine wore off, but that was to be expected. He wasn't going to get a headache, he wasn't going to get an upset stomach, and he wasn't going to toss and turn in his sleep.

He was feeling pretty good, truth be told, and as he stole a few surreptitious glances in Wilson's direction, the smile on his friend's face told him Wilson wasn't fooled at all.

When the lights went out and they were settled for the night, House looked over at the boyish face lit by the arc lights through the window.

"Hey, Wilson … ?"

"Hey, House …"

"The little gifts … are always the best, aren't they?"

"Yup."

"G'night, Wilson."

"G'night, House."

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	36. Chapter 36

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Six -

"Howlin' at the Moon"

Thursday, the clinic was pretty much quiet and placid. Following the events of Wednesday evening, it was a little like "the calm _after_ the storm".

There were visits from regular therapy and pain patients, and these appointments were handled in turn by Kip and Earl and Bill and Bart, all in the course of a day's work, in the regular exam and therapy rooms at the front of the building. Some of the hubbub reminded House of clinic duties at PPTH, and even the idea made him curl back his lip in disdain. He'd been prowling in the wheelchair, and when the first patient showed up in reception, he whirled around and headed back to his and Wilson's quarters.

The two of them spent time, thereafter, lounging around after breakfast. They showered (Wilson), and took a sponge bath (House), got dressed in leisurely fashion, and wasted another hour while Wilson remade their beds, and then rummaged through what remained of their clean clothing … which wasn't much.

Wilson threw a load of laundry in the washer located in a cubbyhole down the corridor from their room. While they waited for it to finish, he checked House's foot, flushed it with antibiotic solution laced with Lidocaine and pronounced it healing nicely. He added extra padding to the bandage, which House eyed questioningly, but refrained from quizzing him about.

House bitched that he couldn't bear weight on the foot yet, and it still hurt more than it should. Wilson's sub vocal rejoinder sounded a lot like: _"Well, no shit!"_

"Think you'd like to try crutches?"

House couldn't believe his ears. "Huh?"

"You heard me. It might be a good idea for you to get upright and begin to take some exercise. After the way you lost your balance yesterday when I helped you to the bathroom, you could probably use some kind of movement in your legs before you begin to lose _all_ the strength in them. Sound like a plan?"

House was all for anything he could do that might get him moving again, but after the past four or five days, he was a little skittish where his mobility was concerned. Without even becoming aware of it, he reverted back to his six-year-old persona. "But what if I fall? I could hurt my foot … hurt my leg. It's not like the wheelchair. I can't lose my balance in the wheelchair … and I can't fall out of it …"

"House … after some of the crap I've seen you pull in wheelchairs over the years, if there's a way for you to fall out of one, you'll find it. You could even find a way to fall off the floor!"

"Wilson, that's not fair!"

"Nobody ever said it was fair … but if you think you can't handle it …"

"Whoa-whoa-whoa there, Buckaroo …"

Wilson's last remark had been the icing on the cake. House suddenly became the logical forty-eight-year-old again. "Yeah … I guess I need to get up and get moving, don't I? If I fall, I fall. I'll just get back up again, huh?"

"I guess you will!" His words were sharp, but the quirk at the corners of Wilson's mouth told House all he needed to know about the spirit with which it was intended.

Wilson brought back a laundry basket nearly full of fresh, dry clothing an hour later. He plopped the basket on the mattress beside House, who was tinkering with his dried-out iPod in an effort to get it to work. "Fold these!" Wilson said. "Make yourself useful."

He picked his cell phone out of the pocket of his windbreaker, which was still piled on the dresser. "Do you want your cell phone? It's probably dead as a doornail … but I have it if you want it …"

House looked up from what he was doing, a little put out with being asked to do much of anything that resembled work. "Nah … can't think of anybody I'd wanna call." He put down the iPod reluctantly and picked at the pile of clothing in the laundry basket. "I dunno how to fold this stuff the way you do it …"

Wilson grinned. He could imagine what the wash would look like after his friend got finished with it. "Have a go!" He said. He took his phone and walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to lock myself in there and call Cuddy. I owe her an update on what's been going on with you. Wait'll she hears that your pain is gone! You wanna talk to her?" Wilson was still all smiles as he disappeared into the john and closed the door. He did not, however, lock it.

House looked up from fumbling with the laundry and grumbled something nasty about: "…actually _wanting _to talk to Cuddy is like asking for a case of the clap." He pulled the wicker basket closer to his side. Heaving a huge put-upon sigh, he picked up the first tee shirt. He wrinkled his brow and his nose at the same time and sat pondering for a moment. Huge, put-upon sighs were of no use at all without an audience. He should save the effort until Wilson came out of the bathroom again. He chuckled to himself deep in his throat and reached for the second tee shirt …

… and heaved another huge, put-upon sigh. They were cheap. And easy. And they let him feel very self-righteous.

"Dr. Cuddy? It's Wilson!"

"James! I was beginning to think you two had left the country. I was going to call you twice yesterday, but you told me you'd get back to me, so I waited. What's going on down there?"

"He's pain-free."

"What?"

"He's pain free, Cuddy. He's still a jerk, but he's a jerk who doesn't hurt."

"James? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. He's much better. _Much_ better!"

There was a very long pause, populated with deep breathing. Wilson waited her out. He knew exactly how she felt. He was beginning to feel that way again also: sympathetic minds in perfect harmony.

"Better than the Ketamine? You _are_ … serious … aren't you?" Cuddy's voice was breaking. She was suddenly riding an emotional tidal wave. Wilson found himself choking up with her, and he'd sworn he would not.

"_Very_ serious. Better than the Ketamine."

"You're telling me he can walk without pain in his leg?"

"He hasn't exactly walked yet …"

"What? Why?"

"Remember, I told you about the decubitus ulcer on his foot … from the bike."

"Sorry, forgot. Is that the only reason he can't walk?"

"I think so. But he says his leg doesn't hurt at all. He's slept through two nights now. One of those nights he was lying on his right side with both legs drawn up. I couldn't believe it myself."

"Where is he now? Oh God, James … this is unbelievable!"

"Believe it! He's in the next room … folding laundry."

"_What?"_

"You heard me …" He allowed the smile to come through in his voice.

"Are we talking about the same person here?" He could hear the tears that transformed her voice, turned it thick and emotional and joyous.

"Oh yeah … tall, lanky guy … sarcastic … can be meaner than hell … walks with a limp … uses a cane … at least I think he'll use the cane again …"

"Oh James … this makes me so happy."

"Me too."

"But you won't tell him I said that, right? I'd never live it down."

He chuckled gently. "Neither would I."

"I'm going to tell his fellows … do you think he would mind?"

"I don't think he'd mind at all. The other night he said he didn't care if I told the President of the United States. Of course he was a little out of it at the time …"

"Thank you, James. This is wonderful. But we won't tell him that either, will we?"

"Of course not. I'll just tell him you're very happy for him … and stand back while he tosses me a raft of crap about _that!"_

"Goodbye, Dr. Wilson."

"Goodbye Dr. Cuddy."

Wilson pushed "stop" on his cell phone, wiped his nose and eyes before leaving the bathroom.

House sat on his bed in smug indifference, once more fooling with the iPod. The ear buds were in his ears and he was twirling the little dial. Tinny sounds escaped into the room. He must have gotten it to work. He sat back with an air of superiority, took a deep breath and heaved an enormous sigh, then folded his arms across his chest.

At the foot of the bed the laundry basket sat in plain view. Each piece of clothing was folded meticulously within it.

James stared. Not for the first time he wondered who this man was … and what the hell he'd done with Gregory House …

00000000

Earl Keirkgaard's living quarters were located further down the same corridor as the ones housing Gregg House and Jim Wilson. Earl's apartment was specifically constructed in a manner to accommodate someone in a wheelchair. Therefore his doorways were wider, his countertops lower. All the wall switches were lower on the walls, and all the major appliances in his kitchen were installed with such a disability in mind.

Below one countertop near the built-in refrigerator, Earl kept two large doggie bowls nested into a raised platform where Bobby could reach them easily. Earl wasn't the only one living with a disability here, and he looked after the three-legged mutt with the responsibility of a doting father. Bobby ate dry dog food, and he gobbled down a bowl of food as fast as it was placed before him. He ate and drank when he was hungry or thirsty, and he was hungry or thirsty most of the time. Earl filled both bowls once a day.

Thursday, in the sublime aftermath of the impromptu concert of the night before, and the magic of two pianos in sync, Earl's mind was a little off the middle of the road, not quite aligned with the center median. He was humming "Moonlight Cocktails" as he went about his morning routine, and his mind was a million miles away from the quiet German Shepherd lying sprawled out in the middle of his living room floor.

When Bobby had been let outside to run that morning, he was still sore in his gut, and feeling weak. He hobbled out to the back lot as far away from Earl … parked on the cement pad outside the door … as he could get, and searched for the right place to squat.

This time his urine was a darker shade of pink, and he felt a burning sensation even in his testicles when he urinated. He whined a little with the pain, but then he finished and it was all right again. He did not scrounge around among the weeds today, but went back to the door and waited for Earl to let him in. He stared at his food and he did not eat and he did not drink.

Sometimes Bobby went along with Earl and made his rounds of the clinic, stopping off here and there for treats and a Meaty Bone or two from some of his friends. Today he stood by the open door of Earl's quarters when Earl coaxed him along, and refused to move. Instead, he plopped down in the middle of the carpet and looked up at his master with reproachful eyes. He did not feel well enough to venture out. Earl misread the signs. Once in awhile Bobby stayed behind to snooze in the sunlight that came through the east window. Earl muttered, "Suit yourself," closed the door and gunned it on the way over to the lab.

House and Wilson left their quarters closer to noon, making their way very slowly down the corridor in the direction of the labs and the dining area. House was attempting his first excursion with crutches, and the adventure was a little slow and a little clumsy. His lame hand was annoyingly tender after an evening at the spinet, and Wilson paced himself very near House's shoulder in case of disaster. He'd intended to bring the big wheelchair along, just in case, but House had pooh-poohed the idea and insisted that he was "fine". Wilson raised his head and rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and against his better judgment, allowed his headstrong friend to have his way.

As he closed the door behind the two of them, Wilson stopped to listen. Down the hall in the direction of Earl Keirkgaard's quarters, he could hear the dog whining and barking. Bobby sounded alarmed, angry. Earl had probably locked him in there this morning so he could get his work done without the dog pestering him to go outside … go for a walk in the corridors … go visit Shaniqua at reception … the operative word being "go".

Bobby had done the same thing a few mornings back, so Wilson ignored it and returned his attention to House … and his sore hand and his wounded foot and his crutches. They continued forward cautiously. After a short series of stumbling steps while his hand gradually limbered up, House began to walk a little easier, gaining grace and confidence as he eased into the rhythm of movement. Wilson knew he had used crutches before; used them a long time, in fact, after the infarction, and before his leg had recovered sufficient strength to allow any bearing of weight.

House had thought then that he was finished with the things forever … and now, here he was. Again! The circumstances this time, however, were different. When he could finally put them away after his foot healed, there was a very good chance he would never have to look at them again. That was, if he didn't pull something unutterably stupid.

They arrived in the dining area just as most of the staff was arriving for lunch break. Cheers and hand clapping and a general aura of boisterous teasing greeted House's attempts at crutches. Wilson watched in amusement from the sidelines as his friend fielded the jibes and the raillery with sarcasm and humor. He did not miss the respect House commanded from every one of them, just by being who and what he was, and everything he had sacrificed to be here.

House ate up the attention with a spoon. Multiple pairs of hands were there to help him into a chair, pull up another chair for him to prop up his foot, remove his crutches from his hands and lean them beside him at the table.

Wilson caught the smiling brown eyes of Lillian Chan, parked close to Bart across the room, and winked at her as Gregg drank in the attention like osmosis, and beamed that dazzling blue-eyed smile at Lillian and Shaniqua. Wilson shook his head in wonder as he stood at the periphery, hands jammed deep into his pants pockets, about half shivery with emotion, just standing and watching.

This was the fiery-spirited man whose deceptive charm lay hidden beneath ten layers of bitterness and pain. This was the exquisite creature with the eclectic, electric, didactic mind. The healer … the physician … the teacher.

This was the same man who had drawn Wilson to his side like a magnet, held him there easily, in the only place he'd ever wanted to be, since the day they'd first met. What _was_ it House possessed that passed over every other man Wilson had ever known? Even he didn't understand it, but he'd recognized it when he saw it.

Wilson knew, however, that this sense of magic couldn't last. North Carolina was a long long way from Princeton, New Jersey, and Paramar Clinic was a far cry from PPTH. In this setting, House could afford to be a charmer, a witty, smiling Giacomo. In New Jersey he would revert, because that's what got him through. In New Jersey he would intimidate, humiliate, infuriate.

Too bad. But Wilson understood the way it was. And life went on.

He found himself a seat at the table and joined in with the general gabbery and the friendly insults and the wisecracks and the laughter. He enjoyed himself and wished it could last forever.

When the meal was over, they lingered awhile longer over coffee. Everyone hated to break it up, but it was time to go back to work. Wilson looked across at House and saw small lines of distress pressing his friend's lips together. House had overdone it in his enthusiasm and was beginning to pay for it. He had placed his left hand into the warmth of his right armpit. Wilson got up from his chair, placed his napkin on the table and crossed over to whisper something in House's ear.

Gregg looked up, startled for a moment at Wilson's acute intuition. He nodded briefly and whispered something back. Wilson left the room without another word.

The others saw the silent admission of pain, understood why he had pushed himself the way he had. Each of them made the collective decision to stay with him until Wilson returned with the wheelchair.

James hurried down the corridor toward their quarters, noticing with annoyance that Bobby was still raising hell in Earl's quarters. He let himself into their shared room, grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and started toward the door with it.

At that moment the timbre of the dog's voice changed. He was no longer barking. He was yelping, then screaming like a wild animal under attack. His voice raised in volume

and pitch until the sounds began to resemble the sounds of mass murder. If they had been near a highway, Wilson could have sworn the animal had just been hit by another bus.

_The red bus with teeth …_

The screams intensified, and a chill raced down Wilson's spine.

_What the hell … ?_

James let go of the wheelchair in the middle of the corridor and took off at a run in the direction of Earl's quarters. Shortly before he reached the door, the sounds stopped.

Silence.

Heart-stopping, bone-chilling silence.

Wilson paused. Did he dare go in there? It was not his place. He paused again with his ear against the door, listening.

The absence of sound that greeted him was worse than the wailing.

Wilson twisted the doorknob and pushed inward slowly. The door moved a fraction and then stopped on something solid. Not _quite_ solid. He pushed again, putting his shoulder into it, and the object gave, as though he were pushing against sand. He gave it a final shove and found himself in Earl's living room.

He stepped beyond the door, heart in his throat. His breathing accelerated wildly, already knowing what was in store.

House's dream! His friend had seen this coming.

"_No! …No time! … can't …" _

Gregory House had dreamed this entire scenario two nights ago.

Wilson looked down.

"Oh, God!"

The big white German Shepherd lay sprawled on his side. His tongue lolled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were open, already glazing over, staring toward the far wall.

Bobby was dead.

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198


	37. Chapter 37

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Seven -

"Thin Veneer of Panic"

Panic, they say, is a quick-spreading, all-encompassing, hysterical fear … and panic was about to hit the Paramar Clinic like a vial of nitroglycerin thrown into a populated building.

Nobody saw this coming. Unexplained nightmares about a dog and a bus did not count. If there were outward signs noticeable to human beings, not one of them had their microscopes trained in the right direction …

James Wilson's blood went cold in his veins. He dropped to his knees with a hollow thump beside the dog's still-warm body. He decided he'd been so close to arriving after the time of death, that he might actually have felt the dog's spirit rise into the air and drift off toward the nether world … or wherever it was that good dogs go. He placed his hand lightly on Bobby's head in the manner of some vague benediction, and words of Hebrew ritual ran a jumbled litany through his mind. He pressed Bobby's eyelids closed, just as he would have done for a human.

He didn't honestly believe that such mumbo-jumbo did anything spiritual to assure the animal's safe passage to the hereafter. Truth be known, he felt mentally fragmented and confused and disheartened and unsure whether any of those thoughts were even coherent.

Wilson mustered his strength, straightened both legs, and let his body slide sideways onto his behind like a toppled sack of apples. He shook the cobwebs from his mind as the real world gradually regained shape around him. From the perspective of a few feet distant, his doctor's brain began to assess information from what was now nothing more than a scientific experiment covered with white fur.

The implications of Bobby's sudden death were vast and frightening … and potentially dangerous to four people: one of them Gregory House. Earl Keirkgaard would grieve for the death of the dog he had saved from a painful fate and then lived with for a year. Kip Bernoski would miss Bobby too. There would be no one to buy Meaty Bones for or wrestle with on the reception room floor. Bill Bernard would have no one to bitch at for dragging weeds and dirt along the clean carpet of the corridors, and Tyree Tolliver had lost his playmate.

The worst thing of all … Bobby had been the first nanocite recipient. What were _those_ implications? The hairs at the back of Wilson's neck were standing straight up. He pulled himself together, suddenly remembering what his mission had been in coming back here.

He rose to his feet. They would soon begin to wonder where in hell he was …

Wilson was mildly surprised that he even remembered to gather up the wheelchair, still standing half in and half out of their quarters. He secured both apartments and spun away, running down the corridor, pushing it in front of him toward the lunchroom as though he had a baby in a go-cart three steps ahead of a tidal wave.

Wilson's head was already spinning with the worst news he could ever imagine having to impart. Had Bobby's nanocites, indeed, killed him? Or was it his advanced age? Could it have been something as simple as a heart attack in an old dog … or had an experiment with the innovations of modern medicine called back one of its own? If it was the result of the nanotechnology, then not only was Gregory House in danger of having his new implants fail, but the others who had gone before him were imperiled as well. That nasty lump of fear that had taken root in Wilson's stomach recently, returned with a vengeance and quickly turned to stone once again.

James slowed to a walk and maneuvered the chair around the corner into the large room where the others were still gathered. He must tell Kip Bernoski first. The man was in charge of this place, and deserved to be the one to make the decisions, relay the news to his staff … and Gregory House … and issue appropriate orders.

Gregg was still in his chair at the table, his foot still propped on the other chair. His hand rubbed at a spot just below the right anklebone. Bart Kirkpatrick stood at his side with one hand on Gregg's shoulder. Wilson knew House was having problems with the foot, but that had to wait for now. He parked the wheelchair at House's side and walked quickly across to where Kip stood at the opposite end of the room.

The look on Wilson's face drew the attention of more than one person, mainly because he bypassed his friend and went directly to Bernoski. James leaned close and whispered very close to Kip's ear. "We need to talk …"

The two of them moved away from the others who were setting about helping House get back into the wheelchair.

"What's wrong?" Bernoski asked.

Wilson did not mince words. "Bobby's dead," he said. "I heard him scream, and when I went to check, he was already gone. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you … but I thought it best not to prolong the agony …"

Kip's hand flew to his mouth and all the color leeched from his face like a glass of chocolate mocha, emptying. "Oh God … oh God … "

"What can I do?" Wilson asked. "Tell me what you want me to do. The others have to be told."

They were drawing attention from everyone in the room. Expressions crossing their faces were too raw for anyone to imagine it was anything good. Bart straightened from his concentration on Gregg and turned in the direction of James and Kip. The room had grown suddenly silent, and even a blind man knows when something frightening is in the air. "What's wrong? Kevin? James?"

House turned in the wheelchair and stared at the two doctors. Immediately suspicious; wary. There was a frown of rapt concentration transforming his features, replacing any pain he might have been experiencing. Wilson knew House well enough to understand immediately that House was already running a scenario of possibilities in his head. Dismissing them all, one by one. If his foot hurt, it was forgotten. Gregory House was in full diagnostics mode.

Kip held up his hands for silence, but it was wasted movement. He was stalling for time, an extra few seconds to get his chaotic thoughts in order. The room was already silent to the point of vacuum.

"Jim has just told me," he said, with a sympathetic and understanding eye toward Earl Keirkgaard, "that Bobby has died."

"WHAT?"

The word exploded from every throat. Disbelief. Stunned astonishment. Heads shaking in denial. Without exception, the Lord's name was taken in vain all around the room. Then more vacuum.

"He started to howl when I was leaving with the wheelchair," Wilson said. "I went to check, and when I opened the door, it was already too late. I'm … sorry."

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	38. Chapter 38

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Eight -

"Ghosts in the Machine"

They were speechless. Every one of them.

Looking around, James saw blank faces, eyes wide and empty. The thousand-yard stare. They were turning into B-movie zombies, lacking only the peeling skin, the falling hair, the bloated, distorted features. No one seemed able to gather a coherent thought or form an intelligent expression.

Except Gregory House.

Remarkable blue eyes searched for and found the other eyes, deep and fathomless rich black coffee. Engaged them, held them. Their owners had been friends far too long to require words for something as grave and far reaching as this.

Reality slowed to a crawl even while they lingered there, and then stopped; camera speed slowing to freeze-frame. A single moment, suspended in time, hung between the two of them.

Wilson's smooth features spoke volumes: _House! … you're in danger! Your sub-conscious mind saw this coming. What else have you seen? I've gotta look out for you! You could die!_

House's eyes, penetrating in reply, answered: _No, Jimmy! I'm all right. It'll be okay. You can't cover my back with every breath I take!_

Things inched forward again; slow motion, as time gradually rebalanced. Murmurs became voices. Then a dissonance of sound. Everyone talking at once. Everyone asking questions of one another:

"What the hell happened to Bobby?"

"What did we miss?"

"We didn't know anything was wrong …"

"Did anyone see him acting funny?"

House held up his hand, suddenly authoritative. His action gained immediate attention, and immediate silence. "The dog wasn't sick. He was probably exhausted. All his nanoprobes suddenly stopped replicating. Then they died."

All eyes pinned him in place: even Wilson's … and Bernoski's … and Keirkgaard's.

Kip asked the question first. Calmly. A request for information. "How do you know, Gregg? What're we missing here?"

"Not sure," House said, surprisingly. "But it stands to reason. An engine needs proper lubrication and fuel to make it run. A dog's body is a lot like an engine … and a lot like a man … though his mechanism is a lot different from an engine … or a man. He needs different nutrition. More fuel. This dog's body was deprived of an entire _leg! _His remaining muscles had to work twice as hard just to keep it going.

"Bobby was like a race car with one of its tires going flat. Then to top it off, it runs out of fuel; loses compression. It's worn out! No matter how much the driver cusses and stomps down on the pedal, nothing happens. It's a pain in the ass to limp back to pit row on three tires, running on fumes and blowing blue smoke. No mobility … steering wheel bucking around in the driver's hands … no balance … no control. Everything Bobby had in reserve … blown! Disabled! Been there …

"Poor old mutt … he ate dog biscuits and dog food and all the other junk he could con people out of, but he never got enough. I think his probes may have just worn out, quit reproducing, quit adding fuel to his tank … like the race car … and when they died, so did he. Maybe those nanoprobes have only so much energy to give … and they quit when the energy ran out."

House shrugged, conceding that his theories were mostly educated guesses. The others studied him hard, gauging whether their past experiences with the experimental probe research, combined with his admitted conjecture, made any sense. He could read doubt in their faces: they wanted to believe, but they still speculated whether or not it offered them anything to go on.

"We need to put Bobby on a table!" House continued. "Conduct a necropsy. Find out what the hell is going on. If we don't, this program could be in danger of an impending shutdown with similar consequences.

"I'm not saying anyone will die. People are a lot bigger and have a lot more body mass than a dog. But there is danger of organ failure, red blood cell contamination and loss of mobility if these nanocites stray into musculature or bone marrow where they don't belong. From what I've learned, they're rather powerful when left to their own devices. God forbid they get into the nervous system any further than they were programmed to go, and then begin to shut down …"

Bill Bernard was already turning away from the group, on his way out of the room. "I'll go get Bobby's body, Kip … put him on a table and take him over to Lab #2. Lillian and her Techs can …"

He paused, breath hitching. "Oh, my God! Lillian's over there with a couple of the Techies … running clinical tests … she doesn't know."

Kip raised his hand for calm. "I'll go on over, Bill … break the news to them gently. You get Bobby and bring him back, okay?"

Bill nodded curtly, already headed out the door.

Bernoski swallowed hard and turned to his other colleague. "Earl … Oh, dear God, Earl. I'm so … so fuckin' sorry …" Kip's eyes were misting and the two men looked long and hard at each other. Keirkgaard's eyes were brimming too.

Wilson remembered Kip's words from last Sunday night … or was it Monday? He couldn't remember. _"I have a best friend too …"_ Earl was that friend, no doubt about it.

Ten seconds later, Kip Bernoski too, was out the door behind Bill Bernard. He had bad news to deliver to Lillian and her staff.

James raised his head and caught Gregg's gaze as it sought out his own. He let his eyes soften to a warmer shade, already forming the message he intended to project this time. The other man was looking back at him steadily now. No nervous shifts of attention or flitting of glances here and there around the room. House was beginning to trust him again.

Shaniqua Tolliver watched them from her seat at the end of the table, silent tears running down her face for her friend Earl … and for his loss … and her own and Tyree's. Neeka watched the connection escalate and solidify between the two doctors from New Jersey; so in tune with each other, regaining something she was certain they had lost once, not so long ago. Celebrating its return.

James Wilson's beautiful dark eyes did for brown what Gregory House's did for blue …

_We're okay?_

_Yeah._

Neeka looked away. She did not wish to embarrass them.

House was adamant about joining the other doctors in the cold room of Lab #2 for the necropsy. Retiring to his quarters to indulge himself in further rest and recuperation was not on his agenda, and he was increasingly vocal about it. Wilson could tell he was getting ready to begin a shouting match with anyone who was not in favor of letting him participate.

James walked over to have a word with Earl Keirkgaard. He knew the man was afraid for House's safety, and, like the others, girding up for a confrontation. He was fully prepared to exert his chops as one of the doctors. Wilson crossed his arms over his chest and sidled up to the other's wheelchair as though imparting a military secret labeled: "eyes only".

Earl frowned and grumbled: "What now?"

Wilson smiled, warding off an incoming round of the big man's ingrained Louisiana Bayou stubbornness. "I'd let the Wookie win this one if I were you," he said softly. "He can be a total pain in the butt when he doesn't get his way."

Keirkgaard snorted. "I've noticed he's a total pain in the butt even when he _does _get his way!"

Wilson snickered, but hid his reaction behind his hand. "I think I mentioned before … House is a force to be reckoned with. Trust me … he'll just keep on huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf until he blows the brick house down too!"

Earl was not mollified. "The man is a damn _pain!" _ He said with exaggerated patience. "And he's _in_ pain! Have you looked at his foot? It's swollen to convex where it should be concave … because he's not taking care of it. Unless I miss my guess, he hasn't allowed the wound to be flushed and rebandaged since this morning. His hand is sore … he's been holding it against his chest … and now he's facing possible failure of his brand new nanocite procedure. I know there's a good chance he's right about everything he just said, but how much more can we ignore for his damn vanity, Jim?"

"But you're in the same danger as he is, Doctor," Wilson insisted. "Remember? Maybe even more so. And here _you_ are. So are Bill and Kip. I don't see any of you backing off! I'd like you to give House his head in this … please. When he's concentrating on a case, everything and everybody around him becomes part of the furniture. Colleagues and underlings are tools of his trade, and he treats them that way. They're his means to an end. I'm in a position to know, because I've been there. Nothing matters but the case.

"House is the most brilliant, most consistently infuriating human being I've ever met. But he leaves no stone unturned. If this is a problem caused by the nanocites, and Bobby's death didn't come from natural causes, he'll find the real one. He won't give up until he does. If there is a simple solution, he'll tell you about it and then go away.

"If the solution is more complicated, he'll work on it until it's resolved. The diagnoses that most intrigue him revolve around guesswork anyway … the elimination of one wrong idea at a time. But he _thrives_ on solving the puzzle. If the resolution means doing something so drastic as finding a way of getting the nanocites back out again … he'll figure that out too.

"About his foot and his hand … he's very aware of them … but they're not a priority right now. He's more apt to be angry if his hand isn't flexible enough for him to participate fully in the 'hands-on' part.

"This is what he _does_. This is his job, his passion. This is what keeps him sane. When the pain in his leg used to get so bad that there was no way he could deny it any longer, he would go to the records room and dig up cases that other doctors were having trouble diagnosing. He would immerse himself in them so deeply that his pain became totally submerged. You've seen his leg, Earl, and you've seen the damage. Part of his quadriceps muscle is _gone …_ his tibia stands out like the handle of a garden rake, and his calf looks like the belly of a dead fish. That's his reality.

"I don't want him to ever have to face that kind of pain again. But if this procedure fails … _if it does_ … medicine is what _he_ does better than anyone else in the world … and it's the one thing that gives him courage to go on.

"Let him assist you with the necropsy, Earl. I know Bobby was mostly your dog, and you feel like hell about this … but what happened was nobody's fault. House and me … we need to help. Afterward, I'll see to it that he rests, and that he'll allow me to take care of his foot. And his hand. There's still a vial of Vicodin in his night table. I can go get it. It will help him with the pain that his neglect has caused."

When he finished, Wilson looked the man in the eyes, surprised to see a twinkle and a sympathetic look where there had been a combination of sorrow and open skepticism before.

"What?" He demanded. "Did I say something wrong?"

Earl chuckled deep in his throat, a sound that brought with it a relaxing of earlier tension. "You already had me when you said he treated everyone around him like part of the furniture …"

"You might have stopped me before I kept running off at the mouth …"

"Well … I thought you were enjoying yourself. Actually, I was impressed, but you were preaching to the choir somewhat. We're all in awe of Gregg's courage. If the necropsy means that much … I have no objection. Okay?"

Wilson sighed. He was much more attuned to condolence than persuasion, but he knew he'd gotten through. "You're all right with Bobby's death then?"

"Yeah … I think so. Thanks, Jim. I'll miss that mangy mutt, but he had a good life. Now it's up to us to find out what killed him … keep it from hurting anybody else."

Earl rolled through the corridors and entered Lab #2. Wilson went for the Vicodin, assuming Gregg had allowed Bart Kirkpatrick to push him over there in the wheelchair.

Gregory House, however, was standing beside the cold, stainless steel table that held Bobby's body, and Bart was nowhere around. House was propped up on the crutches, and the wheelchair was abandoned in a corner. He was supervising preparations for the necropsy, dressed in scrubs, sterile cap and mask, sterile gown, gloves and booties. The wounded foot was held clear of the floor, and he had found new grace in authority. His deep voice issued explicit directions for the Techie Team. He was taking no prisoners, and the Techs jumped at the sound of his voice.

Lillian Chan, blank-faced and silent, sat watching from the background. Bernoski and Keirkgaard and Wilson watched from just inside the room's entry in silent exasperation as Gregg jabbed a crutch tip here and there for emphasis.

No one disputed the directions or questioned his orders.

The necropsy was ready to get underway, and House was in the process of perching himself on a tall stainless steel stool, laying back the crutches and reaching for a scalpel with his right hand.

He looked up when Bernoski walked away from the doorway of the computer cubby and entered the cold room. Without a word, he picked up the crutches again and backed carefully off the stool. He bowed from the waist, and they could see the quick wince that pinched his features beneath the sterile facemask as he withdrew in favor of his host.

"Thy throne awaits, Doctor," he said.

House did not withdraw, but balanced himself close to Kip Bernoski's side when the other man made the first incision.

"What the hell is _that?"_ House inquired.

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206


	39. Chapter 39

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Thirty-Nine -

"Tick … Tick … Tick … Tick"

Bobby was a big dog, even as German Shepherds went. He weighed seventy-seven pounds and stood twenty-six inches high at the shoulder. Or he did!

Bobby lay left-side down on the table. A container with phosphate buffered formalin stood by. Both left legs were reflected upward and Kip inserted the knife to make the first cut.

Bobby's flesh parted and Kip reflected the resultant flap away also, sadly watching their old friend's bodily fluids head for the drains on the stainless steel table. Kip was mainly interested in the musculature of the shoulder, defaulting the dog's lower body in the effort to get to the reconstructed bone structure of the amputated right foreleg. The second cut laid bare the muscles of the shoulder, and as they parted cleanly, the scalpel hit something solid; not bone.

"What the hell is that?" Gregory House inquired from his position close by Kip's right elbow.

Kip looked up and met the intense gaze. "Metallic caul," he said. "When the bus hit him, he went under the front end and was dragged twenty or thirty feet before the driver could stop. One the struts fastened below the axle took his leg off clean above the radius and tore the muscle away from the humerus almost all the way to the scapula.

"Some guy in a car behind the bus took him to a vet, but there wasn't much they could do. He was dying. They were gonna euthanize him. One of the vets called me, and we went to get him." Kip was still working to open up the shoulder further, and as he did so, he stepped aside to allow House to look into the wound. "Can you see the mesh of the caul?"

House nodded. "Yeah," he said. "That's what you used to pull the remaining muscle back to the bone and hold it there?"

"Yup." Kip pushed aside a knot of muscle with the scalpel and with his other hand, parted the meat and pointed to the juncture of the humerus where it joined the bottom of the scapula. "We had to tie it off like a hammock around the end of the amputated bone, and that's why he had to lose his leg nearly to the shoulder. It was almost like stuffing what was left of the leg into a plastic shopping bag and shoving it back in there, then repairing the wound and suturing the skin over it."

House nodded again and then paused to squint a quick look into Bernoski's face. "Could I get closer so I can poke around in there? I think the 'mesh caul' idea might be feasible for trauma surgery in humans too. Who came up with the idea?"

"It was my idea, initially," Kip said. "But it was Bill and Earl who improvised the process of using metal mesh so the dog's entire shoulder wouldn't be frozen fast for the rest of his life. They found a way to insert it so that Bobby's body fluids provided the necessary lubrication and kept his shoulder joint freed up. So, actually, what you said awhile ago about people's bodies and dogs' bodies and race cars … hit closer to home than you realized."

He began to move aside to allow Gregg House closer access to the table, but the tightness of the other man's features told him it might not be a very good idea. House had been standing too long in a position that had already begun to tell on him hours before, and his mounting discomfort was becoming more obvious.

Kip leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. "I'll give you five minutes to check it out. After that, your butt goes back to the wheelchair. I won't have you fainting dead away and landing face down on my table." His voice had the ring of amusement, but Gregg had no doubt he meant every word.

"Agreed. Thanks." He angled his body carefully against the table and leaned the crutches forward to act as a brace while his hands were away from the grips. Then, with both rubber-gloved hands, he reached deep into the dog's shoulder cavity and began to manipulate the musculature and the expanse of stainless wire mesh, which had held Bobby together for more than a year.

Behind his back, Kip Bernoski motioned with both hands to those who watched from positions further away. Silently, James Wilson fingered the Vicodin vial in his pocket and moved to House's right side. Bart Kirkpatrick, who'd returned to the room shortly after the others got there, used James' arm as a guide and moved into the space at his left. Kip grunted his thanks to both of them and walked around to the other side of the table.

House was aware of the switch, and though he did not allow himself to show it, was grateful for their presence. They both reminded him once again of the pressure being exerted by the wound in his foot; and his hand ached from the site of the half-healed laceration all the way to the middle of his palm.

After the passage of five minutes, precisely, Kip motioned for Bill Bernard to bring over the wheelchair. House looked up from his digging and scowled, but Wilson, Kirkpatrick and Bernard all scowled right back.

"You agreed!" Bernoski grumbled hotly.

House sighed, exasperated, and swung his head about to look, in turn, at the men who flanked him closely. Wilson's eyes were shooting intense brown sparks, and Bart's were just as intense in their blueness, even though they were centered at a point just off his right shoulder.

Bill was right behind him with the wheelchair, and he grunted with distaste as the two others lowered him gently into it while Bill held it steady. They stripped him of all the sterile layers until he was down to sweats and one sneaker. "This crap wouldn't be happening if we were back at Princeton-Plainsboro!" He groused. "Dammit, we need to find a way to locate the freakin' bugs and find out whether they killed him … or whether it was something else."

"House!" Wilson's tone stopped him before he began a tirade that would have everyone rolling their eyes. He looked up and saw a frown furrowing his friend's forehead. James Wilson was one of the most patient of souls, but there were times when he got filled up with House's shenanigans. Gregg clamped his mouth shut, knowing exactly when deference was the best defense.

They got him settled with his lame hand in his lap and his foot elevated on a raised leg rest. Bart's soft fingers rested on his forehead and then traveled down over his temples to his shoulders. There they rested, and Gregg wondered what the man was thinking, what he was feeling.

"You're going to pay for your overindulgence tonight, son," Bart told him. "You must learn to offset your periods of activity with periods of rest. The pain in your weak leg is gone for now, but you have no guarantees … since this distressing incident … that it won't come back. If you intend to aid your recovery, you must take it slowly. Regulate down time with periods of physical activity. I don't like the distress I feel coming from you. Constant abuse of your foot is not good. Jim has put the vial of Vicodin in his pocket. I suggest you ask for one of them. In a polite manner …"

House looked at Bart Kirkpatrick in a manner filled with intense puzzlement and a thin veneer of confounded concentration. He did not conjure a sarcastic remark or let loose a snort of disdain. He turned back to look up at Wilson again and lifted his right hand, palm up and cupped. "Please." He said. The politeness Bart requested was there in simple, obedient demeanor. House's respect for this wise old man was growing by the minute.

If he disappointed Bart, he would feel almost as though he were disappointing Santa Claus. Or God.

Solemnly, Wilson withdrew the vial of pills he'd taken from the nightstand and dropped one of them into the upraised palm, then watched as House tossed back his head in the familiar manner of long practice … and took it dry. "Thanks …"

Across the small space that separated them, he saw Wilson and Kirkpatrick both grinning into the air.

At the necropsy table, meanwhile, Kip Bernoski and Bill Bernard continued to examine the remains of Bobby the German Shepherd. The next incision disclosed the animal's vital organs, which they noted contained nothing abnormal: no tumors, decomposition, changes in color, or signs of hemorrhaging. The heart, kidneys and liver seemed normal for a canine of his age. They removed them and placed them in the container of formalin, along with viscera they had collected as the work progressed.

They closed his chest cavity presently, and returned to the area of the shoulder where a year before, a vial of nanocite globules had been inserted near the elbow at the bottom of the scapula. Prying and lifting strands of tissue delicately, they probed for evidence of the nanocite masses or evidence of their reproduction. They found nothing.

Wilson walked up between both men and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "How about an electromagnet with a probe? There's a good chance you could attract them electrostatically and draw them out that way."

Kip placed his scalpel on the table and turned around to look at Wilson with an expression of speculation. "Might just work, Jim," he said. "What do you think, Bill?" He turned further and located Earl Keirkgaard, sitting near the rear of the room, not participating, but not leaving either. "Jim suggests we try an electromagnet. It's a good possibility, but I need to know what you guys think …"

Earl shrugged, but did not come any closer, or offer any input. Kip understood how he felt and left him alone. He turned his attention back to Wilson and Bernard. "Well?"

"Let's try it," Bill said. Wilson nodded.

"Looks like the 'ayes' got it …" House commented from the wheelchair. Off his feet, he had perked up a bit. "You gotta locate the little bastards so you know which way to take your research next, ya know."

Kip nodded. "Oh yeah … don't I know it, man …"

They rolled it out. Hooked it up and got it charged. Kip moved the solenoid in a direct field, holding the back of the probe directly over the site where Earl Keirkgaard had injected the "bugs" into Bobby's shoulder muscle last year.

At first there was no reaction. Only a quiet buzz with a slight hitch in it that sounded a little like an old gasoline engine with a flat spark plug. Kip expanded the area of search in an outward circular pattern and activated the probe again. For a time, there was nothing. He was close to shutting it off and trying something else.

"Keep going, Kip!" They had not heard Earl roll up behind them. They were too caught up in the drama of the search. The man in the mechanical wheelchair had determination stamped on his face like the blue USDA Seal. "They're there! They're in there, and you have to find them. If you don't, then we're all gonna be freakin' goddamn guilty if something shitty happens to Gregg here ..."

The magnet buzzed, and a red light on the base unit blinked on and off and then stopped. The solenoid stopped charging and went quiet also. Bernoski lowered the tip of the probe device into a glass beaker and Bernoski sped the beaker behind the partition at the back of the room where Lillian and the Techies waited …

Minutes passed.

Lillian Chan's voice came over the intercom. "I have them, Kip. They're all dead. They stopped replicating … stopped working. I'm … sorry. They helped Bobby … and then they killed him."

"That clinches it!" Earl snarled. "We have to get them out. Gregg first … then the rest of us. God only knows what kind of window we have left with Gregg, but we don't dare let it go. His probes are only two days old. The damn bruises are still on his leg, for God's sake! But if the nanoprobes are defective, his immune system could soon become compromised … if it's not already …"

He made a face and shifted his gaze between Kip and Bill, the other two who had been injected with nanocites the year before.

"Bobby's hardly cold, and not even in his grave yet. The others of us were injected as soon as we knew it had worked for him.

"The rest of us could be nothing more than ticking time bombs … and the counter is running down …"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you read this, I am on my way to a week's vacation where I am not sure of computer access. If I have it, then posts will be up every morning as usual. But if I have not, then I will be back with you early Monday morning, July 23. Thank you. Bets;)

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211


	40. Chapter 40

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty -

"The Night Before the Morning After"

"C'mon, House … give me a break and shut up awhile. How do you expect me to take care of this if you don't sit still?"

"Did it ever occur to you that you might actually be … _hurting_ me? Might be playing a little too rough? Causing me real … _pain?_"

Wilson could hear the whiny undertones of the six-year-old. "Yes, it did occur to me. About a dozen times. And you keep _reminding_ me and _reminding _me. Did it ever occur to _you_ that Bart was right about you paying a price for your overindulgence earlier?"

Wilson sat in a chair by House's bedside, pulled close to the edge of the mattress with his friend's swollen foot propped delicately on his knee.

House was down to tee shirt and boxer briefs again, and his thigh looked angry and sore around the wound sites near his surgical scar. The skin was still dark with bruising, and it could only get worse. Early the next morning House was scheduled to undergo still another surgery to remove the nanocites that had been so recently inserted. The liquid Lidocaine in the antibiotic wash, meanwhile, was not doing anything to help with his foot pain, according to the decibel level of Gregg's bitching.

Wilson was beginning to feel helpless.

"It was your fault!" House complained, undaunted. "You told me I should get up on crutches so I could exercise my leg … try to get some of my mobility back … _Ow! Ow! _Watch it!"

"Sorry. If you'd stop jerking around, I wouldn't hurt you. If you remember, I suggested that you try walking … _over to the lab … _ on crutches. I wanted to take the wheelchair so you could switch back when we got there … but oh no … Gregory House knows best! He wouldn't hear of having me take the damn wheelchair along. Now look at you … all swollen and sore … and you've probably set your healing back …"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Buckaroo! If you hadn't had to come back here for the wheelchair, you wouldn't have heard the mutt yelping … and you wouldn't have gone down to Earl's place to check … and you wouldn't have opened the door and shoved his smelly carcass halfway into the living room … _Ow! Damn! _… And Earl wouldn't even have found him until later tonight … and the whole place would be reeking of 'dead dog' by now …"

Wilson sighed heavily and sat back in the chair. "House, you have all the sensitivity of a cement block."

"What does sensitivity have to do with anything? Dead bodies _stink!"_"

"Everything! Earl is grieving for that dog. He cared for Bobby, and he's gonna miss him. And another thing … how do you think Earl feels, knowing that all their research and the nanotechnology he and Bill and Lillian worked so hard to make feasible, has turned out to be a bust? My God, House … they're scared to death that they may have put your life in danger. I am too, if you want to know the truth. I just got you back … and I don't know if I could stand to lose you again."

House snorted his disdain at that declaration. "My life's not in any danger, for cryin' out loud, so stop with the crocodile tears! I'm fine. They'll pull the damn bugs out of my leg again tomorrow morning … and I guess it'll go back to the way things were. The only thing that bothers me in the least is the fact that Clem Kadiddlehopper and Freddy the Freeloader over there have to have their bugs removed too … and they stand to lose a lot more than me."

"Don't forget about Cauliflower McPugg …" Smiling now, Wilson decided to play along with the Red Skelton references.

"Huh?"

"Kip Bernoski. He told me the day we got here … his left leg is amputated at the knee, and he wears a prosthesis. Medical ethics kinda kept me from saying anything before. But now … you should know he's at risk as well as the others."

"Aww … jeez! Well … then I guess he knows where the ' bear shit in the buckwheat' too … like Bart says …" 

"House … I …"

"Wilson, stop it! We win some, we lose some …"

James placed the palm of his hand gently atop House's instep and sat up in the chair again. He placed the wounded foot back on its pillow and stood up. He was worried, antsy, feeling an urgent need for something he could not identify. He just knew he had to move or climb the walls. He began to pace back and forth from one end to the other in the crowded expanse of the spacious room. His boundaries were limited, however. Most of the available floor space was taken up by their scattered belongings.

House lay propped against a pile of pillows, observing in silent contemplation. His left hand was curled against his chest in a somewhat defensive posture, and he flexed and unflexed the thinned muscles of his right calf. His foot pained him, Wilson knew, and he could not flex the foot without inviting further discomfort, so he worked the calf muscles instead. Wilson noticed that his friend was abnormally pale. A thin sheen of moisture lay across his forehead, exuding a faint glow like the surface of a matte photograph.

"Wilson, sit down, for cryin' out loud!" House grumbled before Wilson could say anything further. "You're giving me the creepy crawlies. There's not a damn thing we can do tonight, so we might as well wait it out. At least let me enjoy my last night of no pain before they give back my 'old friend' in the morning …"

Wilson whirled, his face a mask of incredulous disbelief, arms raised, fingers curled against his palms. And then his body went limp and he wilted forward, dropping in a heap on the opposite side of House's bed. He sat hunched for a moment, overwhelmed.

House watched, a little alarmed at his friend's behavior. He raised his sore hand away from his chest and extended the arm outward, intending to touch Wilson's shoulder with his fingers.

James sat up at that same instant to look at House.

House pulled his hand back and replaced it across his chest. Their eyes met hotly in a stubborn clash of wills … and then Wilson exploded into harsh laughter that House had seldom heard from him before.

"What the hell's got into you?" House demanded with mocking sarcasm. He reached to his nightstand and scooped up the iPod with measured nonchalance, preparing to insert the ear buds.

Wilson's shoulders were shaking with spurts of sardonic laughter. He pointed in the direction of House's foot, and then upward to the lame hand he still held curled to his chest. His dark eyes went suddenly soft again with compassion. "Didn't I just hear you say … 'let me enjoy my last night of _no pain'?_ Isn't that what you said? Are you crazy? You've been denying pain for so long that it's finally driven you out of your mind! And you're gonna try to distract yourself with screechy teenage music? Just look at you! Your foot hurts like hell, your hand hurts like hell, and you look like death warmed over. My God, House!" He shook his head slowly from side to side, and for a moment House thought he was going to cry.

"Wilson …"

"Don't 'Wilson' me! Every time I try to make a point with you, you get all cozy and fuzzy and silly, like a little kid, in the hopes that I'll back down and let you have your own way. Or you screw around and change the rules! Do you have _any_ idea how nuts that makes me?"

The blue eyes softened quickly and the deep voice lowered to a rumble of pacifying amusement. House reached out with his left hand again, tentatively. "Well then, it looks like it's pretty much of a draw when it comes to deciding who's crazy here … and who's not …"

Wilson sighed, reached for the extended hand and turned it over within both of his own. The laceration scar was pink tinged and slightly inflamed around the edges. "What am I ever going to do with you, you idiot? You're turning me into an old man before my time."

"Unintentional, trust me," came the answer. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Wilson nodded. "Sure …" He released House's hand and shifted his position to reach into his pants pocket for the vial of Vicodin. He handed one to House. "Take this first."

House placed his iPod back on the side table and reached for the pill. Stuck it in his mouth, tilted his head back and swallowed. "I think I'm a little scared," he said, finally.

Wilson nodded silently. "I know, House. Me too."

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	41. Chapter 41

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-One -

"Speculation"

Midnight.

Neither of them had been able to sleep. So they sat in Earl's little apartment with the big square coffee table cleared off and pulled over between them. All the nickels and pennies were on Kip's side of the table, and Earl Keirkgaard had a look of "martyred-soul" mental cruelty pulled down over his face like a torn window blind. The chip'n'dip dish was empty, the plate of bologna and cheese looked as though mice had been at it, the sandwich plate was dotted with crumbs, and they were out of beer.

"If your intentions had anything to do with cheering me up tonight, Bernoski," Earl groused, "ya sure went about it the wrong way. You ate all my snacks, drank all my damn beer … an' ya didn't even let me win one freakin' poker hand! As friends go, you'd make a good plumber. An' now it's after midnight and Gregg House's surgery is set for six in the morning. Whaddaya got to say about that, huh?"

Kip studied his friend with a bemused expression for a few moments before he spoke. "I just thought we needed a distraction for awhile, or we'd be like everybody else around here tonight … getting ready to tear our hair out. If we don't get this problem under control right away and dig around to find out what the hell caused it, we'll be risking the lives of four people … you and me included. That's not what I had in mind when we started on this program, Earl, and it's ripping me apart."

The stocky man in the wheelchair nodded his head solemnly and searched the other man's face for outward signs of distress. Kip was worried. They all were. The death of Bobby was the least of it. They were all wondering whether their pilot program had been anywhere near adequate, and whether they had sent out feelers asking for volunteers a few months … or a few years … too soon.

The fact that Gregory House had come forward so quickly after their first public inquiry, asking nothing in return except perhaps an end to his life of pain, had made every one of them eager to snap up his offer before he changed his mind.

Now there was a very real possibility that they had put the man's life in peril, along with their own. The three men who had initially been spared further chronic pain by the successful experimental surgery on the big dog, now owed their first volunteer more than could ever be repaid in coin of the realm. They could not afford to take further chances, and they had agreed: Gregg's welfare came first … _way_ before their own!

House himself, had been more than willing to hang in and wait to see how things played out. That was all well and good, but no one wanted to see this man hurt. His arrival the week before had given them all a tough lesson in the meaning of courage. That alone, combined with the fact that he had a friend who cared enough about him to shadow him all along his 600-mile route, had doubled the lesson and clinched the deal. The welfare of Gregory House meant more to the staff of Paramar Clinic than they had the power to explain.

House and Wilson had chosen to stick around and offer their assistance, and not cut and run for home to file a lawsuit, and that challenged Paramar's ethical standards, even in their own eyes. There was just _something_ about the lanky doctor from New Jersey that had grabbed them where they lived, and they were at a loss to understand it. It was uncanny. He was not overly friendly. Sometimes he had a tendency to whine like a spoiled little kid, and he had the general attitude of a pit bull. And yet, he held them all in thrall like Merlin the Magician had held the denizens of Camelot.

Earl Keirkgaard understood how Kip felt about the failure of the nanotechnology to fulfill its potential in the O.R. This kind of disappointment, and the fear and dread it produced, was enough to demoralize anyone who had worked as hard as Kip Bernoski to make a revolutionary idea work.

"After we remove Gregg's nanocites and he recovers enough to withstand the trip home okay, then we go back to the labs and continue the research," Earl declared. "When we get it straightened out and determine the flaws and correct them, Jim and Gregg can come back and …"

Kip snorted, half in despair, half in disgust. "Earl. Listen to yourself! It could be years. Decades! We don't dare try it again until we're absolutely sure no one else can be hurt. Sometime very soon, you and I and Bill have to have all our probes removed. _Very soon!_

Then _our_ pain will come back! By then, Gregg House probably won't want to have anything to do with this place.

"We took away his pain, Earl! We took it away long enough for him to see what it was like to _not_ hurt twenty-four hours a day! Now we're just gonna give it all back to him and say, 'sorry, Gregg, but we didn't give it enough time to see if we did a good-enough job … because the _good_ part turned out to have the potential to kill you!' He's not a man to suffer fools gladly … and in his eyes, we're probably all a bunch of fools …"

"Hey, Buddy … he's not like that …"

"How the hell do you know? If it were me, I'd be raising all _kinds_ of hell."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Look at it this way: the man is brilliant. His mind works on another level … so far above yours and mine that we just fade to nothing in his shadow. I think he foresaw the huge benefit in our work. He saw the potential _and_ the danger … and he close to volunteer anyway."

"You're telling me Gregory House is some kinda genius?"

"Maybe. And maybe he's a fool too. But I don't think so. Unless I miss my guess, the man's I.Q. is somewhere near the 180-mark. Maybe higher. And he's still willing to wait for us to dig up the solution without any interference from him or Dr. Wilson. Neither one of them wants to give up completely on something that has the potential to revolutionize the practice of medicine. Its benefits will continue long after our moldy bodies have been worm fodder for centuries!

"What we've started here is an ongoing thing, Kip. If we don't follow through, someone else will, and someone else may have far fewer altruistic motives than you and me. So, I guess what I'm saying is … hell … give Gregg House credit for that foresight, willya?"

"I guess I never looked at it that way …"

"Yeah? Well, you were so busy with the problems we were having that you didn't get much time to talk to Jim and Gregg. I did."

"So … are they … 'together'?"

Earl's eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me. Are they … you know … lovers? That thought has crossed my mind a lot over the past few days …"

"Jesus, Kip! How the hell would I know? I don't think so. They're _friends! _ But even if they are lovers like you say, it's none of my freakin' business. Or yours."

Bernoski sighed, shrugged. "Just wondered. You can't tell me it never occurred to you either. Anybody dedicated enough to tag along behind an idiot on a motorcycle, who's in that much pain, and let him do what he had to do without interfering … has to either be in love with him … dedicated to the point of eccentricity … or nutty as a fruitcake!"

"Interested in hearing what I think?"

"Sure."

"Jim Wilson is in awe of Gregg House. Probably from the day he first met him. Wilson knew right off about the scope of Gregg's mental acuity. He has a pretty potent intellect himself … and he figured out right away about the dichotomies of that awesome brain. The more powerful the mind, the more juvenile are its favorite distractions. Jim wanted to safeguard the mind, and at the same time, protect the man-child whose body held such a mind. The two of them are symbiotic."

"That's what you think, huh?"

"Yup."

"I agree with you."

"Ya do? Wow! That means the world still abounds with miracles, Kip." Earl grinned, glad to drop the subject. "We'll get through this, you know. All of us!"

They cleaned up the rest of their mess, returned the coffee table to its rightful place, and deposited their dirty plates and glasses in the dishwasher. With a triumphant smile, Kip loaded his pockets with nickels and pennies, the spoils of his poker victory. Earl watched silently.

When Kip left to go over to Lab #2 to commandeer its corner cot for the next couple of hours, Earl prepared himself for a short rest and a short night.

Leaning back on his pillow, he felt his heart pumping a little faster than usual. He attributed it to the stress of the past thirty-six hours and the potency of the spicy foods he had consumed during the evening. His and Kip's heated conversation might have had something to do with it too. His alarm clock told him it was just a little past 1:00 a.m. God, he missed Bobby's comfortable snoring at the side of his bed …

Earl closed his eyes and heaved a huge sigh.

Suddenly, his heart jumped in the middle of his chest as though it were trying to escape from being squeezed to death. He could feel the blood pounding within his ears, and a searing pain screamed down his left arm, all the way to his fingers.

Too late, Earl Keirkgaard realized what was happening. He threw his upper body off the edge of the bed and grasped the arms of the huge wheelchair. He must get help.

But the chair was plugged into its charging port for the night, and fate was quick and decisive. The contours of the room danced before his eyes in shades of red, and his great heart gave up the struggle and shut down.

The bus that had mangled Bobby was coming for him now …

Earl's body landed on the floor between the bed and the wheelchair.

He was going away now, on a journey to find his dog … a long time before he thought he would …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

219


	42. Chapter 42

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-Two -

"Redemption"

It was dank and overcast Saturday morning, and daylight took a long time spreading across the city of Raleigh and environs. The low cloud cover created an atmospheric box canyon around the area that made extraneous sounds and smells magnify and echo in the thickened, smoky air. Downtown traffic noise, even this early, penetrated in a deafening cacophony that sounded like a herd of brontosaurus stampeding through the living room.

Truck traffic was heavy, especially from the hotel and restaurant suppliers, stocking up their customers' freezers and larders for the weekend's onslaught. Diesel fumes and exhaust emissions of stop-and-go driving added to the stench.

Shaniqua Tolliver and her son Tyree arrived at Paramar Clinic at 5:30 a.m., before any vestiges of sunlight had a chance to sneak in on tiptoe. She was a little put out with the kid, and the two of them did not have much to say to one another as she pulled her Dodge Durango into one of the handicap parking spaces reserved for employees. It had always amused her that she, as one of the few able bodied members of the staff, had the right to use one of the handicap spots when the kid was along.

Tyree had balked at getting out of bed so early in the morning. She'd finally been exasperated enough to go into his bathroom, run the cold water into the bottom of a drinking glass and dribble it into his face when he'd tried burrowing deeper into the covers. That had worked in spades. He sat up like a shot, yelling at her that it was just not fair of her to take advantage of a crippled kid like that.

Shaniqua had laughed in his face and reminded him that he'd promised to get up as soon as she called him, because today Gregg House was having surgery to remove his nanoprobes, and he'd demanded to go along with her. He was still a little upset over the death of the German Shepherd, but she also knew her son held a strange admiration for the grumpy doctor from New Jersey. The positive thing, she reasoned, would overcome the sad thing, and Tyree could visit Gregg before he went into the OR, and they could compare notes on music, WWF and current sleazy TV shows. It might be good for both of them!

Neeka waited until Tyree got his arm canes gathered up and opened his door before she opened her own and set the locks. She did not hover over him or do for him the things he could do for himself. She kept her distance and allowed him as much independence and dignity as he could handle, and he did it very well.

He was, after all, almost fourteen years old, and would soon be clamoring to get a taste of the "real world" far beyond her ability to protect him. He had to find out that most people had little or no tolerance for those with disabilities. The handicapped were all well and good when they kept to their place. But if their special needs inconvenienced the able bodied, it was not unusual for the able bodied to close ranks and simply shut them out. It was not nice, not polite, had nothing to do with the fairness of things. Shaniqua believed that Tyree could learn much by paying close attention to Dr. House's total intolerance for morons.

He waited for her until she walked around the front of the car and caught up with him. "Still pissed off at me?" She asked with a teasing smile.

He made a snoot at her, but then smiled back. "No, not really, Mom. But y'awl don't play fair!"

She laughed, and they headed for the front entrance.

00000000

Gregg House and James Wilson were both wide awake long before Wilson's little travel alarm went off. It was still inky black at 5:05 a.m., and only the glow from the arc lights in the parking lot came through the window to lift the edges of darkness.

Wilson flicked the alarm off and lay sprawled on his back, sheet kicked to the foot of the bed, his PJ bottoms bunched around his legs. His upper torso was bare in the comfort zone of the ventilation system. He lay with both arms up, fingers laced behind his head, and his head turned toward the other man's strangely quiet presence. He could tell by Gregg's breathing that he was not asleep. He cleared his throat and spoke. "House?"

"Um?" The response seemed a little guarded, a little reluctant.

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Querulous.

"Answering my question with a question again. You know I don't like it when you do that. What's wrong? Foot hurt?" Wilson consciously avoided asking the question that was uppermost on both their minds.

"Yeah. Preparing me for the rest of it …"

There it was, Wilson thought. His friend's worst fear out in the open, and he hadn't even had to beg. "I'm really sorry …"

"Don't be! It has nothing to do with you."

"Oh yeah it does. It has just as much to do with me as it does with you. I'm not here for Bill Bernard's sausage and pancakes, or to listen to you play 'air piano' with Lillian Chan. And I'm not here because I wondered what it would be like to follow some jackass on a motorcycle 600 miles in crap weather. I'm here for the long haul, House. I'm here 'til the fat lady sings, if you get my drift."

A snort from the other side of the room caused a furrow to deepen the space between James' dark eyes.

"I've always known you were a bleeding heart and a mother hen, Wilson. But I know what you're fishing for, and I don't want to talk about it. I just want this mess to be over with and get back to things the way they used to be. It's not like there's anything anyone can do to have it any different. I know. I've been over it and over it in my head … and … ah shit! Crap is crap, and that's it."

James watched House turn his back and roll over onto his left side, facing the wall. He took a deep breath and raised himself onto an elbow. "No it's _not!" _ His words were not haranguing or cajoling or demanding. They were a statement of fact. "I know how difficult this is. We mentioned it last night, and I don't want to discuss it either. But we have to. The last thing in the world I want is to see my best friend go back to a life of pain. But you will … and we both know it."

House made another disgusted sound, this one with a faint shade of tremor in the timbre of his voice. House was scared out of his mind, dreading the return of the chronic pain and the chaotic existence that would ensue.

Wilson grimaced at the back of his friend's tousled head, still turned away from him, and gathered himself for the moment when the shit hit the fan. "I never thought you were a wuss before … but I guess even _you_ turn into one from time to time." He took a deep, shuddering breath and expelled it harshly.

"Y'know, House … for every pile of shit that accumulates, there's eventually a honey dipper …"

There was a moment of silence between them that lengthened into a long, uncomfortable lapse of every sound in the room except for the rhythmic rumble of the big ventilation system. When Gregg House rolled onto his back again and glared at the worried face across from him, the dimples at the corners of his mouth were deepening into dark coal pits.

House chuckled, then laughed. Two sharp spurts of sound exited his throat and climbed up his face until they morphed into a bright pulse of light that danced in the steely blue of his eyes.

Wilson watched, not sure where it would go next. He kept the frown on his face, quite prepared to continue the argument, should the moment warrant it.

"Damn you, Wilson! Did you just call me a 'pile of shit'? … and yourself a 'honey dipper'?"

"Kinda sounded like that to me. Guess it did to you too, huh?"

House's eyes narrowed, but a corner of his mouth remained quirked upward. It was not a smile like before, but rather a look of concession. "Yeah, guess so. You've been pretty sharp lately, Wilson. I guess I don't give you enough credit for savvy …"

"House! Cut it out!" Wilson knew when he was being cleverly derailed. "Time keeps moving on … and we can't outrun it or dodge out of the way. Kip and Bill and Earl are going to come in here and get you in a little over an hour … and it's gonna be all over but the shouting. I'm sorry, House. I wish there were some other way …"

The expressive eyes paled from bright blue to slate gray. "You know what the worst thing about this whole business is?" 

"What?"

"I didn't even get to enjoy it."

"What? What do you mean?"

"My leg, Wilson … the thing with the leg! The pain thing! They used me in a pilot program that I willingly signed up for. Rode 600 miles in shitty weather to get here … fucked up my foot on the way and never even knew it. They took care of me. Helped me. They prepped me with the damned 'spikes and stringers' so my nervous system would adapt to the insertion of the nanocites … and then they operated to insert them. They took every precaution possible … and when I woke up from the surgery, the pain in my leg was gone. It worked. But you know what?"

"What, House?"

"It wasn't meant to be, because I can't walk on the foot that got screwed up, so I couldn't give them any idea how well the procedure worked on my leg. I don't even get the damned satisfaction of knowing if the leg might have stabilized a little more … above and beyond the muscle that's missing.

"I'm useless to them for research purposes … which is the whole reason I volunteered in the first place. There's no way to tell how much, if any, mobility I might have gained because of what these guys did for me … and after all that, I still get to be a cripple."

"House …" In that moment Wilson knew without a doubt the anguish his friend felt over the failure of the nanocite program. "There was no way for anyone to foresee what would happen. They have to pull out your nanocites to protect you. Can you imagine the guilt these men would face if anything happened to you because of the failure of their program?"

"Doesn't make sense," House insisted. "All three of them are in greater danger than me. They've had their implants for close to a year. They should be the ones to have theirs removed first. The window between the time the mutt died and the time their procedures begin to fail … won't stay open much longer …"

"No!" Wilson insisted. "Yours are still brand new. Still bunched … not spread out yet. It will be less traumatic for you if they pull yours out first … less invasive … you'll recover far quicker than they will."

"Oh sure … and everything they needed to determine from my procedure will be for nothing. Completely useless! They have nothing to contribute to the advancement of medicine … and I don't get to be the tortured hero …" The sarcasm crept into his tone almost unbidden.

"Sorry … I don't think I really meant that … not this time …"

"House …"

The beginnings of daylight were finally lifting the shadows from the room. Wilson could make out the narrow planes of his friend's face, and the sorrow he perceived there began to divine a hollow place deep in his chest. Gregory House seldom, if ever, allowed his feelings to betray his inner thoughts so copiously, even while sitting in silence. Wilson felt suddenly privileged. The naked hurt in House's eyes touched him to the core.

"It's okay, Wilson," he said at last. "Just a momentary lapse in decorum on my part. It sometimes seems that whenever I get a little too optimistic, a boulder rolls down the hill and lets me know who's boss …"

"I'm sorry, House." Wilson didn't know what else to say.

The tousled head turned in Wilson's direction, and the snark returned to brighten the blueness of the eyes once again. House had pulled the shades back down on the spark of openness he'd just created, shutting it down indefinitely.

"I said it's okay. Don't worry about it. What'll be will be!

"In the meantime, maybe you could see to this damn foot again. It hurts like hell …"

00000000

Shaniqua and Tyree Tolliver walked into reception just in time to see Kip Bernoski hang up the office phone and turn to face them. They exchanged greetings, but the puzzled look on Kip's face gave Neeka pause to wonder.

"What's up, Kippy?" She asked. "Y'awl look a little … 'absent without leave' …"

He smiled a moment at her attempt at humor. He placed a friendly hand on the top of Tyree's head and affectionately tolerated the boy's sham punch to his upper arm.

"I just called Earl's apartment. He was gonna meet me for coffee over at Lab #2, but he's late. I guess he's so used to Bobby getting him up at the crack of dawn that he managed to oversleep. Anyhow, he doesn't answer. We can give him a few minutes to show up, or go over there and bust his butt …"

Tyree was all smiles. "Let's go bust his butt!"

Kip shrugged. "Okay … you lead the way, kiddo. Your Mom and I will follow you."

Tyree grinned with thoughts of conspiracy. He planted his noisy arm canes in front of him and started off down the corridor with youthful enthusiasm. "C'mon then!"

Kip and Neeka hung back, following slowly, watching the boy's clumsy, enthusiastic movements as he lurched along happily. Neeka knew what her boss was doing. Every once in awhile, Kip found a way to observe her son's physical condition without letting on that he was doing it.

Kip kept pretty close tabs on Tyree, knowing the boy was maturing rapidly, hitting the first stages of puberty like a sledge hammer, and trying to bust down all the walls of teenage propriety by being the first in his crowd to be "macho man on crutches". It must be working. Evidently, he was doing a pretty good job of it. He was a popular kid with his peers, and Kip had heard that as far as the fairer sex was concerned, he trailed a long string of broken hearts in his wake wherever he went.

"He looks to be doing pretty well," Kip commented to Shaniqua as they followed the eager youngster down the hall. "Doesn't seem to be in pain, and he's gaining strength in his legs. Does he complain to you much?"

Neeka shook her head. "Nope. Not at all. Other than bitchin' out that he's no good at sports, his attitude is really good. Has plenty of friends, gets decent grades an' never gets himself into trouble. We're lucky … both of us."

Kip nodded in agreement. "He looks fine to me, but just keep an eye on him. Puberty sometimes does strange things to kids with CP. He may experience changes, and he may not. If you notice anything, or if he seems like he's hurting, let me know. He may try to hide it from you if he is …"

The three of them were in front of Earl Keirkgaard's door. Tyree was knocking. They waited. There was not a sound from inside. "Bet he went around the long way an' we missed him," Tyree speculated. "Guess we walked all this way for nuthin' …"

Kip already had his cell phone pulled out of his breast pocket and was hitting Earl's key. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. "That's funny," Kip said. He was a little alarmed.

Neeka, at his side, touched his arm lightly, and spoke. "Ring him again, Kip. I'm gettin' this funny feeling … I think I heard a phone ring inside his room …"

Kip was already punching in the code.

They stood still and listened, their shoulders close against Earl's door.

The faint jingle of Earl's cell phone and "The Saints Come Marching In" reached their ears as they exchanged glances.

Kip knew Earl never locked his door. He turned the knob and barged in, holding his hand backward in restraint to Shaniqua and Tyree. "Stay there!"

"What's wrong, Mom?" Asked Tyree. He was worried.

"Kip's gonna check, dear. He'll …"

"Oh … sweet Jesus!"

Kip came back to them a minute later. His eyes were full and tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. "He's gone," he said. "Earl's dead! I just left him four hours ago! It looks like a heart attack, but I won't know for certain until …"

Neeka and Tyree were crying too, clinging to Kip and to each other. Neeka gathered herself quickly. "Tyree, come with me. I'm going out front and call the coroner. He'll need to be autopsied, but not by us!

"Kippy … you gotta go down and tell Jimmy and Gregg. And then the others. Oh merciful God! You know what this means, don't you?" Her southern drawl had disappeared beneath her alarm and Shaniqua was all business. She gathered her sobbing son and turned around to head back down the corridor.

"I'm so sorry, Kip."

Kevin Bernoski stood in the middle of the corridor in front of Earl Keirkgaard's open front door. His arms and legs were rigid, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes were so filled with tears that he could not see more than a few feet ahead of him.

Ah God, Earl … my friend. This can't be the way it all ends! This can't be the last blowout to all our goddamn work. Your memory deserves a better shake than this … what'm I gonna do without you?

_My friend Earl …your life must stand for more than just this! And it will, so help me God!_

Kip stumbled blindly down the corridor in the direction of James' and Gregg's room. His right hand trailed down the wall as a guide, for he was unable to stop himself from crying.

He stopped in front of this other door and knocked twice.

James Wilson called out from somewhere inside: "It's open … come on in …"

James had his back turned, gently tending to Gregory House's wounded foot.

From the bed opposite, House looked up and saw the devastation in the other doctor's eyes, and he was reminded of his own.

"Wilson," he said urgently.

"Stop! Something's wrong …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

228


	43. Chapter 43

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-Three -

"Square One"

"I can't go through with this!" Gregg House shouted. "I can't! Not like this! Not under these circumstances! It just isn't fucking _right!"_

His voice rose a little higher in volume and pitch every time he opened his mouth. He was perched on the edge of his bed, eyes wild, clad only in boxer briefs, feet dangling scant inches above the floor. The bandage, half wound around his swollen foot, actually scraped across the wood inlay, and a few inches of white gauze lay pooled beneath his toes.

Around the bed, Wilson, Bernoski, Kirkpatrick, Bernard, Tyree and Shaniqua Tolliver stood poised like orderlies in a mental hospital, prepared to rush forward if he so much as moved another muscle. Gregg was about to lose it again, they thought.

00000000

Kip Bernoski had delivered the bad news in the only way possible.

He'd blurted it out through his tears and sorrow and let the pieces fall where they may. He knew House had seen the look on his face when he'd walked through their door, and he knew Gregg recognized pain when he saw it. The man had been a connoisseur of pain for a very long time, and was well acquainted with all its manifestations.

James Wilson looked up from the half-finished bandaging job on House's foot and turned quickly away from the side of the bed at Kip's stumbling declaration. The soft brown eyes quickly brightened with moisture at the news, and James found himself already misting up in sympathy.

"Oh, God! No!"

Wilson's own voice was barely above a whisper, but in the sudden silence of the room, it reverberated like a shout. He turned away from Gregory House and walked deliberately across the room to the other man, then drew the startled Kip Bernoski into an embrace. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. What happened?" He was afraid to ask the direct question that was already on their minds.

The two men drew apart and stood eyeing one another awkwardly across the small space that now separated them. Kip kept nodding, trying to find his voice. "Thanks, Jim …" he managed, " …for that! I think I needed that more than anything.

"Earl is … _was_ … the person I was talking about Sunday night when I said I had a best friend too …"

"I had kinda figured that out," James acknowledged softly.

On the bed, House cradled his throbbing foot with both hands and stared across glumly at the pair. He was not in the least surprised to see Wilson embrace the other man without compunction. He wished, sometimes, that he were capable of doing the same.

His voice also stretched across the room without its usual caustic edge. "Was it the nanocites?" He asked carefully. "Or something else?"

Bernoski wiped his face on a handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket, and parried his gaze between the two others. "We don't know yet," he said. "It's too soon. We just found him."

"'We?'" House persisted. His interest was becoming professional now, his training taking over. He straightened his leg and moved toward the edge of the bed. His sore foot was forgotten, the puzzle pulling his full attention.

"He was supposed to meet me for coffee in Lab #2 at 5:45," Kip said, "and he was late. He didn't answer his phone. I thought he was either in the shower or on his way. I ran into Neeka and Tyree out front and we went to look for him. He didn't answer the door, so I called his cell phone." Kip's voice hitched, and he stopped in his narrative to wipe his eyes again.

"The giveaway was the sound of the damn phone ringing inside his apartment. I went in and found him right away. He was on the floor between his bed and the wheelchair. He must have known something was happening, and tried to go for help … the dumbass doesn't always remember to take the phone back to the bedroom with him … that'll teach 'im …"

Kip's shoulders were shaking again, and he paused a moment for the grief to ease off. "Shaniqua and Tyree went back out front to call the coroner. There needs to be an autopsy … but we can't do it, obviously.

"I think he had a heart attack, and it took him quickly and, I hope, painlessly. His face had turned dark, and there's edema present that points to coronary artery involvement. The autopsy will tell us for sure … but they can't possibly finish it today. There's going to be an inquiry as well … as soon as the coroner's team comes across the clusters of nanocites. Not everybody knows about this program."

House glared, ignoring that last. "How soon?"

Kip paused for a few seconds and then his gaze fastened on the hard blue stare, which House projected outward from his position on the bed. Bernoski didn't particularly like the way Gregg sat perched precariously near the edge. "Doesn't matter. We can't waste any more time. We've got to get you out of here and down to surgery. If anything happens to you because of what we did here, none of us will ever be able to live with ourselves again!"

"No!" House yelled. "Earl is dead, for God's sake! You've got to back off from this shit and give yourselves time to grieve. Do the others even know yet?" He leaned forward even further over the edge of the mattress, looking for all the world as though he were getting ready to cut and run out of there.

Wilson gave a startled yelp and made a beeline for the side of the bed.

House stopped him in his tracks with a stiff arm and a pointed finger. "No! Oh no you don't! This isn't right! You can't do this! Not now!"

Wilson sighed, a long shuddering breath. He'd seldom felt so completely out of control of a situation. House's fear was coming to bear in a shocking climax, and Wilson hoped the trembling of his own body was not so readily apparent to his friend, sitting there stiffly, watching him like a mongoose watches a cobra.

James shook his head as though in exasperation, seeking to cause distraction. He leaned his elbow on the curve of metal at the foot of the bed, sprung his left hip and hung there, draped unceremoniously. He raised his head, looking angrily, worriedly, at the ceiling. He could feel trickles of sweat beading on his forehead and running in rivulets down the center of his back.

On the other side of the room, they heard the door close softly. Kip Bernoski had taken a sneak while they were confronting each other. He was going to get reinforcements …

"Ya happy now?" Wilson snarked. "Now he has to break the news to everyone else and then bring them back here to screw with you!"

House was not paying attention. He was tense, agitated and aggressive, and still on guard. He maintained a close scrutiny on the bedroom door, and he did not give ground.

James Wilson put on his best "nonchalant" face and did not try to approach. The two best friends froze in place and glared at each other.

Minutes ticked by.

00000000

It was a Mexican standoff. Five minutes passed in a slow motion of torturous progression. Neither man moved. Neither spoke.

Early morning fog was lifting, and with it the edges of shadow that had filled the dark corners of the room. Wilson looked House directly in the eye, challenging him stare for stare, refusing to back down and allow his headstrong friend to have his way. House was pale. His foot must be torturing the hell out of him.

Wilson knew House intended to postpone the urgent nanocite surgery … if he could … until something proper could be done for the stricken friends and colleagues of Earl Keirkgaard. Wilson also knew House did not have a death wish, or any stupid inclination to commit a martyr's suicide. He was simply proceeding from his own convoluted sense of propriety, which, in his mind, was in the best interests of people he had come to admire and respect.

Wilson could not fault him for that.

The 6:00 a.m. deadline came and went.

Finally the bedroom door swung open again. One by one, Neeka, Tyree, Bill, Bart, Kip and Lillian entered and took their places silently in a ring around the bed. They were cautious and alert. They were expecting Gregory House to have a serious meltdown.

For the first time, House took stock of his situation, realizing that he was suddenly surrounded by people who were very frightened for him. He looked down at himself and his state of almost-complete undress as though he had not been aware of it before. His eyes shifted nervously from one worried face to another, his concentration wavering. He blinked and licked his lips, and no one said a word. Even his nervous movements seemed to be confirming their worst fears. He returned his eyes to Wilson in a silent plea for rescue, but Wilson ignored him and shifted his own gaze elsewhere.

House reached down and pulled the crumpled sheet over his legs, but held stubbornly to his place at the edge of the mattress.

A slight movement near the center of the gathering drew their attention inward. Tyree Tolliver was beginning to squirm, fighting boredom. Fighting something! Perhaps he was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to remain standing with most of his weight leaning forward on his crutches.

The boy sighed, still fidgeting. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his iPod. Turned it on. The tinny sounds of teenybopper music screeched into the air from the dangling ear buds.

Beside him, Neeka made hasty motions with her hands, hissing through her teeth, seeking his attention to put the thing away. Tyree paid no heed. He shifted his weight on his arm canes and inserted the ear buds into his ears one at a time with exaggerated concentration.

Sometimes the very young did not always do as they were told.

Everyone stared at him, including Gregory House.

_Especially_ Gregory House!

Neeka backed off as it dawned on her that her son had a plan …

Tyree Tolliver was beginning to nod his head to a rhythm that only he could hear now. Then he looked up and quietly observed House flickering his attention toward him. Curiosity: bane of the genius mind!

The boy frowned for a moment, and then slowly removed the ear buds from his ears again and held them in his hand. He heaved a huge put-upon sigh and clanked his way across to where House still sat, mostly naked, his swollen foot hanging down, bandage dragging … and he offered up the iPod and the ear buds to the cranky doctor from New Jersey.

A smile spread across the kid's face in calculated youthful guile. A large, long-fingered hand reached tentatively to take the small instrument from extended light brown fingers. Other faces froze, eyes watching the byplay with rapt attention.

"Thanks," Gregg House said. The first word he had spoken in twenty minutes. He inserted the ear buds into his own ears and moved the tiny wheel to the next song.

Tyree grinned and clambered onto the bed beside Dr. House. With his right index finger, he pointed to a spot a little further back from the edge of the mattress. House looked at him sternly for a moment, then cocked an elegant eyebrow and slid himself backward until he was no longer in danger of falling to the floor.

00000000

James Wilson felt the cold, solid syringe of … something or other … being pressed into his palm.

Sedative.

He did not dare look to see what it was. To his left, Bill Bernard leaned slightly forward and caught his eye. Bill's head nodded up and down one time. Wilson was close enough to House's left thigh to administer the medication. If he could pull it off, this standoff would be over and they could whisk House away to the OR, perform the necessary surgical procedure and check him out physically to be sure he had been successfully relieved of all the nanocites.

James moved in under a pretense of interest in the screechy teenage music that House loved. House's eyes were closed and he was swaying in time to the baseline …

Wilson reached out and thrust the needle deep into House's thigh muscle, depressed the plunger.

House jerked back as though he had been slapped, and the look he gave Wilson as his friend withdrew the needle, was just short of murderous. They locked eyes in a clash of wills, but House realized too late that he was helpless to prevent the strong sedative from coursing through his veins. He was shortly on his way to oblivion.

His eyes slowly began to lose their sparkle. He blinked and shook his head groggily at Wilson. "That was a cheap shot!" He grumbled. But his voice had already lost most of its strength.

Forty seconds later, the tall, lanky body toppled sideways onto the bed, fading fast, and Tyree Tolliver was frowning sympathetically. He knew he was going to be in the doghouse real good when the grumpy doctor woke up in recovery.

They had intended to transport him in the wheelchair, but now it would be like trying to prop up a two-hundred-pound plastic bag filled with Jell-O.

Kip sprinted away for a gurney and they took him to the OR flat on his back.

By 8:00 a.m., House was hooked into full anesthesia, Foley, IVs and monitors, and the electro-magnet probe was being inserted into the barely-healed wounds in his right thigh.

The machine whirred in Kip's hands, while Bill Bernard assisted. Lillian Chan sat behind the partition and monitored the computers with Bart close at her side in silent support. They both had aching hearts and a sense of purpose.

Shaniqua walked slowly back to reception with her son at her side. "You did good, kiddo … y'awl did really, really good!"

Tyree would like to have smiled at his mother's high praise, but his heart wasn't in it. He had lost two friends, and jeopardized the trust of another. He had nothing to smile about.

Sadly, Neeka signed the forms when the black ambulance from the Coroner's Office came by to respectfully remove the body of Earl Keirkgaard. She and Tyree stood with arms about one another in sorrow, watching the vehicle pull away.

"He's gonna go be with Bobby forever now, isn't he, Mom?"

"Yeah, son … guess he is. An' I can't think of a better place …"

Author's Note:

You've been great! You've stuck with me through the computer glitches and my sad experiences with a machine, which is way smarter than I am! I've been reading your emails and reviews with a huge smile on my face while drinking my morning coffee and listening to the sound of the creek outside the window. My vacation is going great, and I'm in the best of all possible worlds. I appreciate your hanging in there, and I'll be back with you "live" on Monday the 23rd. Thank you thank you thank you …

Bets;)

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234


	44. Chapter 44

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-Four -

"Wake Up, Baby Boy!"

As Jonesy, the SONAR man, said in "Hunt for Red October": "For a minute there, I thought I heard … singing …"

Singing?? 

Mmmm … something about the Russian national anthem … and: "running home to Momma …"

Never mind. Forget it. I just thought for a minute I heard singing …

Wow! I did! But not from underwater …

It's taking me longer this time to come out of the anesthesia. Wilson and that damn kid are gonna get their asses chewed!

What I heard while I was floating up through the depths, reminded me immediately of Jonesy on the _Dallas_ … Bart Mancuso's big _Los Angeles _class submarine …

"_Come on, 'Big D' … fly!"_

_My God! I'm dreaming about Cold War Movies and Russian submarines! The longer I'm here, the more bizarre my dreams are becoming …and I keep getting stabbed in the rear end … and elsewhere … with hypodermic needles!_

I hold myself back from laughing. Laughter, or even the hint of it, would tell them I was regaining consciousness, and I don't want anyone to know yet. There are some things I have to check out for myself first.

Have to watch the breathing too! They can tell from that if I'm faking … if they're watching and listening to the monitors closely … and the odds are good that they are.

So I continue to fake it while Shaniqua Tolliver sits beside my bed, holding my damn hand and humming "Amazing Grace".

I don't have much time to figure things out; they'll be expecting me to come out of it soon. So I start a physical inventory of this messed-up old bod that begins at the top of my head and moves downward, inch-by-inch.

Key word: "Inventory".

Ahh … crap! That thought not only lit up a whole new light bulb; it threatened to blow out the fuse and the main circuit along with it!

Just that quick I see myself back about two weeks in time. Sitting in that stinking dayroom with a herd of human detritus … Step Four: "Took a searching and fearless moral '_inventory'_ of ourselves …"

Goddamn! Hard to believe that six freakin' weeks hanging out with twenty smelly drunks and druggies and reciting the Twelve Steps, could make an indelible imprint on a man's brain that fast!

_Come off it, House! You're wasting time, and they'll be onto you in a minute … Neeka, fer Chrissake, pick another song! Jonesy, cover my six! I'm crashin' …_

I feel the hint of a headache … whether just coming on or just leaving, isn't quite clear. Anesthesia will do that to some people. It did it to me in spades after the second surgery, back when I had the infarction. With a little luck, this one won't persist. I've got enough damn pain to look forward to.

_Poor me!_

My eyes burn and my mouth is dry. Nothing unusual there. I don't think I was intubated for this procedure. My throat isn't scratchy. Probably a mask, like they did a couple days ago. God, my mind is fucked up!

My shoulders ache, and lying flat on the mattress isn't helping. There's a pulse ox on my index finger … and I can feel the IV needle taped to the back of my right hand. Again! The damned thing is pulling the tiny hairs there. That figures. They're still babying my left hand, just because of the laceration … which is nearly healed now, and not at all painful. But Neeka still holds onto it like it'll fall off if she lets go.

My brain tells me I'm hungry, but my belly says: "Oh no you're not!" So I guess I'd better not be asking for food. Not yet, anyway.

I sigh; let my breath hitch in my throat a little … let them think maybe I'm already in pain. I'm not … but I don't mind if they think so.

_Liar! Scuttle the boat, House! Swerve the bus before you hit the dog!_

I move my head half an inch to the left, and wince just a tiny bit … a quirk at the corner of my mouth, and let my eyes squinch shut a little tighter … then relax. And do it again. Are they watching? They must be! I don't hear any movement. Not sure who-all might be here in the room with me.

Shaniqua … I already know that! Bart? Could be. He sneaks around this place like a snowball in a blizzard.

Surely Wilson ...

There is no sensation in my leg. Probably still deadened with morphine. Don't know if there is a bandage or a brace … the leg isn't elevated …or anything else that will tell me how the surgery has gone. I need to look, but half scared to. I'd never admit _that_ to a living soul!

I feel no pain. None. Nothing from the damn pain-in-the-ass foot either. Not even the feeling of pressure that the ulcer has been causing.

Damn! I expected to be able to determine more than this!

Neeka is still humming …

She has a nice voice. Probably sings in the choir at whatever whoop-ass church she goes to. Most black women her age belong to one of those or other … but I wish she'd switch songs. This one is getting tiresome.

Try _"Asleep In the Deep",_ sweetheart. Little joke there …

I'm trying again to move the leg … hitch it a little … drag it across the mattress a few inches. Crap! It won't move, same as last time. Some of my alarm bells are beginning to go off, dammit!

Now I hear the shuffle of feet across the floor. They saw me trying to do that one! Movement, coming closer to my side, and then stop. A murmur of voices near my bed.

One of them is Shaniqua. Whispering: "Shouldn't he be waking soon? Poor baby boy …" Her fingers are gentle in my hair. Feels good, actually … looking out for the cripple. Aw, Neeka … how sweet of you …

_But you could knock off the "Baby Boy" shit?_

I hear a tiny chuckle of approaching laughter. Warm, soft, affectionate.

Wilson! Of course he's here. I knew it. Not quite as worried about me as Shaniqua seems to be. Another wry chuckle confirms the presence of Bart …

_Uh oh … really gotta scuttle the boat! Look out Jonesy! They're gonna deep-six us!_

"You have to take into consideration who you're dealing with here!" Wilson is saying in a very sly manner. I can hear the hint of an old friend's knowing sarcasm in his tone. "He's been awake for at least ten minutes!"

Ah fuck! Busted like a cheap balloon! Too late Jonesy! The torpedo just hit the hull … And I'm trying to make like a hole in the water … 

I open my eyes a slit, and Wilson is glaring at me. Neeka has gone silent. I don't see Bart, and since he can't see me anyhow, he would have to be hands-on to get any input from the eyeball circus. Neeka's hands were the only ones on me, but she has backed off … and finally shut up with the Jesus songs.

Wilson is bending over me. "Who did you think you were fooling, Ace?"

I open my eyes all the way and try a "helpless" look. He isn't having any. He doesn't like it when I try to fool him, although the look in his eyes differs drastically from the one that shows on his face. So I try to look contrite … but I guess that doesn't work either. He's telling me I look as though I'm sucking on a ten-penny nail.

_Ew!_

And then I see him nod at someone out of my line of vision. He says: "Go back to sleep awhile!" I blink my eyes a few times, and I begin to fade away again. I don't want to, but I'm thinking someone has upped the drip on one of my IVs.

Things are going gray …

"_Gray Lady Down" … _

_I'm dreaming again … I think …and in my dreams, the shit hits the fan …_

A huge, dark, cylindrical image is coming at me under the sea. Bus? No. Another submarine! I cringe. Playing cat and mouse with me, and I watch this leviathan thrust and feint like a giant eel in mortal combat …

_Go, Dallas!_

I'm the captain … at the conn … and the attack from the other boat has just caught us amidships … a torpedo going off so close to our vulnerable underbelly that the lights blink off and on before our auxiliary systems can compensate for the near hit.

I scream at them to compensate … "Right rudder! Come about! Forty degrees on the bow plane!" A chain reaction begins to build beneath the decks under our feet, and I fear we are getting the worst of it.

The _Dallas_ lurches like a Brahma bull as the attack causes us to flounder. Another torpedo runs a near miss before we can run stable enough to retaliate. Tracers burn along the starboard side, sizzling fore to aft. Inboard lights blink again, then go out completely as my crew scrambles for purchase to keep from hitting the bulkheads.

Some of them are too late, as smoking console boards begin to short out and burn, their metallic stench adding to the already contaminated air down here …

"Auxiliary lights!" I scream, half choking, prying myself off the nearest railing and jabbing at shutdowns before I have a major fire on my hands. From the corner of my eye I observe other members of the crew valiantly scrambling about, assisting in the effort. They catch my eye for brief moments, and I nod acknowledgment in their direction.

We'd somehow managed to get to most of the more serious breaches in the mains.

Once again, interior lighting flashes, blinks once, then flickers and steadies as laboring emergency-generating plants growl into operation. I leap back to the conn, both hands burned and stinging, and open the link to the engine room.

"What the hell's going on down there? I need emergency power, and I need it now!"

The strangled voice coming through the grid is not my chief engineer, but that of his little Australian boson's mate: "Captain? This is Chase, sir. Commander Foreman 's been hurt. He's on his way to sick bay …"

_Chase? Foreman? Sick Bay?_

"We can't give you emergency power, sir. We can't give you emergency anything! It's crazy down here! Two men dead. Two others badly burned. We're givin' it all we got, Captain … but I gotta feelin' she's gonna blow … sir … we're gonna hit the dog!"

_Dog??_

The link goes dead. Banging on the grid doesn't do a fucking thing. I turn to look around in the eerily bloody red light, thrown dimly off the bulkheads by the failing auxiliary batteries. I know there is precious little time. My boat is consuming herself from the inside out. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I give myself the luxury of a few moments' mourning … wondering how badly Commander Foreman was injured … who had given their lives in the line of duty … Bobby. Earl.

But there is no time for that now, and I bring myself back to full awareness. Through the rising stench of burning circuitry, Commander Wilson stumbles toward me, pointing at the forward status board and their blinking indicators, trying to form words through a burning throatful of smoke. I whirl to look over in the direction where he's gesturing …

The numbers on the indicators are counting down as an object comes at us full-bore from the direction of our starboard bow.

"Fire One!" I scream.

"Inoperable!" Wilson screams back.

"Fire Two!"

"Inoperable, sir …" Lieutenant Bernoski yelps.

"Engineering! Chase! Take us out of here! Dive! Dive!" The grid crackles to life as I pummel at it.

"Diving, sir. Aye, sir."

I can feel _Dallas_ lurch suddenly as the ballasts fill and the downward planes clank and grind. She is barely lugging away from certain destruction, and we all feel her death throes as she sinks toward the murky depths. Too late … too late …

Wilson and I stand hunched beside the conn, waiting for her massive hull to crush inward

from the water pressure. He looks at me with a firm expression of acceptance and long comradeship, and then turns to walk gallantly back to man his own station.

The time we have left on this planet is winding down …

"Captain! Wait!"

It's Wilson, and his voice is tense with something I can't quite read. Hope?

"The other boat, sir! I don't understand! They're hesitating. Circling! We have a chance for a shot!"

I scream into the grid: "Engineering! Come about! Bring 'er level! Ready torpedoes Three and Four!"

"Aye, sir!" His voice is breaking up, and I hope we can maintain the connection.

I return my attention to Wilson as we feel the intense gravity of our boat as it begins to level off. "What the hell are they up to?"

"Unknown, sir. They think they have us. Maybe they think we're dead in the water and they're coming around to be sure. They are within firing range, sir!"

"Fire Three! Fire Four!"

"Three away, sir! Four away!" We feel the jolts of release; hear the hiss of water displacement.

"Goin' home to Momma!" Jonesy says. "Here, boy!"

_Where the hell did Jonesy come from all of a sudden?_

We hold our collective breaths.

Contact!

_WHUMP!! WHUMP!!_

The twin concussions throw most of us on our asses. Our ears pop. The other sub was too close for comfort. Again we hold our breaths, hoping that our damaged vessel hasn't been taken apart also in the wicked aftermath of disaster beneath the ocean's surface.

Another concussion is the result of the mystery submarine coming apart as her hull crushes inward. Not us! Not us!

The boat lurches, and I hear Wilson groan. I land hard against the base of the periscope. I can feel the agony of the big bone breaking in my right thigh, and the pain radiating down my leg all the way to my foot. It is staggering, and for a moment it takes my breath away. Then it goes dark around me and my fading thoughts are for the safety of my crew.

"_Wil-son-n-n …we're aliiive …!"_

The dream is over, and my pain returns like a torpedo firing amidships.

Everything comes apart in a firestream of excruciating pain, and I feel, rather than hear, myself, moaning out loud … clawing at the air for something to hold onto … something solid to wrap myself around … exert a force to be reckoned with by the strength of my arms so the pain will not rip my body apart …

and I'm screaming … and I'm screaming …

Someone has me in a death grip … hands easily as strong as my own grasp my wrists to keep me from hurting myself … forcing me to bend my elbows and stop arching my back in the effort to find a way to climb out of the zone of torture.

It's Wilson. Easing me back from the place I desperately don't want to be, and I return to sanity at last, realizing he is sitting against me with his arms around my aching shoulders, his face pressed against my neck. He is holding my body down until the pain peaks and the increased meds kick in and I can become coherent again.

I open my eyes and the world reassembles around me. He is looking down into my face now, and his image is blurry because my eyes are still swimming with tears. He backs off some, and my shoulders are painful from the force of his weight on top of me.

"How did you know?" I finally asked.

"Kip said we should stay with you … watch you … that when the pain came back, it would be bad. He was right. How is it now?"

His eyes are full and splashing over with his own pain, and beside him I see the others as they gather around me.

Kip Bernoski is standing at my right, directly in my line of vision, and I can see the tears running down his face like a mountain stream in springtime. "I am … so … sorry, Gregg," he says. "This is not what I had in mind when I decided to …"

"Stop it!" I'm surprised how strong my voice is. I am still reeling with the residual effects of the intense pain, but it has slacked off now, and it is not so excruciating that I can't hush him from all the idiotic hand wringing and apology making on my behalf. I had gone into this with my eyes wide open, and said so. "Any sense of sorrow that shows up at this little camp meeting should be for Earl Keirkgaard … not for me!

"I just got back what I was so damn anxious to give away a couple of days ago!"

They didn't say much after that.

Later, the rest of them just kind of faded away. I slept some, and was vaguely aware of Wilson … damn his contrary hide … hovering above me like an agitated dragonfly.

Bart Kirkpatrick, standing by the head of my bed with his strong, warm, soft fingers firmly working my aching shoulders, lulled me gently to sleep as my own father never had. And wherever he touched me, the muscles relaxed immediately.

Shaniqua finally went home to her son … and I thanked her for the concert … and for the love … and as sarcastically as I could possibly make it, I told her I was personally gonna kick her kid's rear, but I didn't _really_ mind being called "baby boy"!

After that it was just Wilson and me. Batman and Robin. Lone Ranger and Tonto. Kirk and Spock. How could I pick on him after all he'd been to me … _for _me … this past week? I couldn't. And I hated myself for my inability to even _try_ to piss him off.

He sat so close to me that I wanted to slap him silly … but I couldn't do that either. Figuratively or literally. So I finally decided to put up with it. I figured he'd get sick of the mother-hen bit sooner or later and finally go away of his own accord.

He didn't.

I told myself I needed to learn to put up with that too!

With my status going full-circle, and now all the way back to the place I'd been on the day I got here, I would never be rid of him as long as I lived.

Actually, that was not a bad thing.

Later, he pumped me full of sleepy juice, and I had a pretty decent night.

So much for signing on the dotted line …

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243


	45. Chapter 45

"GUESSWORK"

Chapter Forty-Five

"Crossing the I's, Dotting the T's, Putting A Period Before the End!"

My leg was a _bear_ the first couple of days!

The muscles and nerve endings crawled and spasmed constantly and uncontrollably. Even with the inevitable return to full medication, there was no way I could lie still or sit still, or even find a comfortable position to rest it or cajole it into submission.

During those days, someone was with me around the clock. They did not dare leave me alone, and my state of mind held even the most compassionate of them at bay. I couldn't help myself, and I was hell on wheels from the incessant pain. I badgered Wilson and Bernoski to allow me out of bed so I could hop about and try to combat the creeping willies that lurked beneath my skin. At the same time, I knew in my mind that it was not possible. I had no strength, no sense of balance, and no dominion over anything.

They all probably wanted to have my head on a stick!

This latest surgery had been far more serious than the first. The tiny wounds at the original insertion points had had to be reopened and enlarged for the nanocites' difficult removal with the electromagnet. The trauma to the muscles and nerves, already compromised from the long-ago infarction, were further compromised in the bargain.

The pain it caused added to the old misery, and it tormented me twenty-four hours a day. I was unable to sleep without heavy sedation. The result turned my thought processes to a labyrinth of crossed wires, and my mental acuity into a rabbit warren populated by rabbits without brains. Constant movement. No control. My own moron!

My leg was swollen to grotesque proportions, and the touch of the bandages that covered it was more than I could tolerate. I whined and bitched and moaned and groaned until the dressings were finally removed, revealing the bruised and tortured swollen skin and the lines of butterfly stitches that closed the enlarged wounds.

I'm not a lightweight when it comes to these matters, but the sight of it sickened me. How in the _fuck_ was I ever to walk on this leg again? In addition, I had no idea what was happening with the annoying ulcer on the sole of my foot. It hurt and burned and throbbed like an overheated furnace. The simple act of trying to move my toes sent waves of fire upward into my calf.

_Never again! So help me God! I need to get the fuck out of here!_

I bitched and whined about the intensity of the pain, which they already knew about, and were already doing all they could possibly do. They knew I would be miserable for a few days and they remained tight-lipped and guarded in my presence.

When they had the chance to get out of there and take a break, I'm willing to bet they threw stuff at the walls and slammed things and cursed a blue streak about what an abominable asshole I was. And if they did, I couldn't blame them.

My usual habit is to throw out some outrageous sarcastic comment, and then gauge attitudes and reactions. My brain just wasn't geared up for it this time. Finally, even I began to understand why I was being regarded as an ass. When the pain escalated, the sarcasm increased exponentially, but I wasn't making sense. Only noise. It got to the point that I couldn't stand me either!

But the pain continued to rule my responses, and I gave in to it.

I was glad I wasn't one of those poor souls on the "caretaker's run" …

00000000

House is sleeping. Medicated into the middle of next week! Close at his side, Bart Kirkpatrick is leaning over the bed with his fingers on both sides of House's neck. He whined and complained until they finally allowed him a firmer pillow. Now he has pillows supporting both ends, and is still not happy. But he sleeps … and I can tell that Bart is working on his nervous system somehow, rather than the muscular-skeletal system. House's hands are relaxed at his sides, not fisted, and that's a drastic change.

It's Tuesday now, three days after his surgery, and we are all exhausted; beginning to wish there were a good excuse to just medicate him to the point of oblivion. His pain is unrelenting, and other than inserting a direct morphine feed, we saw no other way to offer him any kind of lasting relief. He's not content with anything we try to do for him. Struggling to understand what he's going through keeps all of us on edge, nervous, and half surly with one another. The guilt we all feel is unrelenting as his pain.

I'm the one who knows Gregory House better than anyone else on Earth, but after this latest upsetting parade of days, even I am ready to wring his neck. Or _someone's!_ I'm a little scared that something about the nanocite experiment has permanently damaged him far beyond our ability to repair.

It's still too early to do anything stupid or unthinking. Like placing blame or making accusations. But my love-frustration level for this vulnerable child-friend and his unrelenting misery is beginning to make me _crazy!_

I'm also beginning to doubt myself, and my vows of undying devotion … and again I'm experiencing a mounting wash of new guilt. This, on top of not having completely settled the guilt from the time of House's calculated overdose late last year, is turning me into a nervous wreck.

I look at the two of them, across the room from me, and watch more closely as Bart's fingers slide down House's neck and turn gradually along the bony ridges of his shoulders. Bart uses the tips of his fingers and the heels of his hands to grip and release the skin-over-bone that seems to comprise most of the structure of House's entire body. The blind man is gentle and efficient, and I can tell that he holds my friend in very high regard. I feel a smile slide across my face at the thought. The respect and admiration must be for the intellect, rather than the sparkling personality!

House is still losing color in his face, and his eyelids are veined and parchment thin. He can't afford to lose much more weight, but food still makes him nauseous. He rails at us when we threaten to feed him intravenously, saying the condition will pass, and it's the pain and nothing else, causing it. He is able to drink Ginger Ale and water at room temperature and keep it down … so we decided to give it another day before overriding his loud objections to another IV.

The ability to move his damaged leg came back at the end of the first day after surgery, and that was encouraging. The effort of the movement, however, takes all the strength he can muster, and sometimes I would see him panting through the pain like a woman in labor. It breaks my heart. I know it will soon be necessary to begin the leg exercises Kip mentioned even before his first surgery … and I don't look forward to it. But if we don't exercise that leg until he is able to do it himself, the mobility may never come back. It will probably cause him even more pain … but it is a means to an end … and even the stubborn creature that is Gregory House, understands that!

Sometimes if you back off from a problem that seems insurmountable, it will resolve itself. That's what I've heard, anyway. I'm not sure I put much stock in that theory, but right now I'm willing to try almost anything.

I sit here watching the slow rise and fall of Gregg's chest as he sleeps; knowing that the relaxed look on his face is a fleeting thing. It's getting close to midday now, I guess, and I'm a little hungry. I'm observing Bart Kirkpatrick from a distance, marveling at his stamina as he continues his magic manipulations about House's neck and shoulders. The old man hardly seems to be touching him, just flitting those amazingly supple fingers about the base of his skull, down across his neck and across those long, bony shoulder blades.

We will soon be here two weeks, and another cause of my huge case of "the guilts" is the fact that I have not yet emailed or called Lisa Cuddy to inform her of the nanocite failure.

I know it is inexcusable and I am entirely accountable for the lack of responsibility. I've been putting it off and putting it off because I lack the courage to tell her that House's last-ditch effort to rid himself of his pain has been so utterly useless.

If Cuddy loses it … especially on the phone … I'm sure I will too. And House will know. House knows everything, and I'm lousy at keeping my emotions off my face.

I vow to call her tonight … back at our quarters … where House cannot see me bawl my eyes out.

00000000

Kip Bernoski stood beside Shaniqua Tolliver's desk and computer station in the front reception area, tapping his fingers impatiently on the surface. He'd been put on "hold" and was clearly unhappy about it. Neeka looked up at him with a spark of concern in her dark eyes. "Y'awl know what they say about a watched pot …"

Kip rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers louder.

The day Earl Keirkgaard died, Kip called Cyrus Markham at the Science Foundation and told him what had happened. A conference call ensued, and members of the board put their heads together as soon as they learned the details of Gregory House's recent surgery.

Upset as they were over Earl's sudden and unexpected demise, their main concern was the possible danger to which House had been subjected. They could not afford to take chances, and they advised Kip to remove Gregg's nanocites as soon as possible, even though Kip was already way ahead of them.

After that, Markham had put in an emergency call to the Coroner's Office in Raleigh, NC, and "suggested" that the autopsy on Earl Keirkgaard's remains be carried through with the utmost dispatch, due to the fact that the life of another human being might hinge on its outcome.

Now the coroner was calling with the preliminary results. Trouble was, the man had received a call on his other line in the meantime, and was tied up with another critical conversation. When he finally got back to Kip, it was revealed that the "other" call had indeed been Cyrus Markham, demanding to know the results of the autopsy and suggesting with vehemence that a similar call be placed, forthwith, to Paramar Clinic.

When he finally came back to the line, the doctor on the other end was apologetic in the extreme, but he assured Kip that their examination had been thorough … their people on overtime and working non-stop twenty-four hours a day to reach the proper conclusion.

Earl's death had been the result of myocardial infarction; a blood clot that blocked one of the coronary arteries. He had died painfully, but quickly. His nanocites were still widely dispersed throughout his system, and still replicating themselves in the manner with which they had been programmed, shutting down only when he'd died. His death had been … more or less … natural.

The full report from the Coroner's Office would be forthcoming in the mail in two or three business days, and was there anything else they could do to help … ?

Kip thanked the man profusely and quickly rang off.

So it wasn't anything the nanocites had done to endanger Earl's health! His time had simply been up.

Bobby's death came, coincidentally, at that time because he was thirteen … very old for a big dog like that.

The rest of them had panicked and chosen the path of caution instead of taking the chance and waiting to see whether Gregory House's surgery would kill him or cure him!

Their target program was safe. Kip and Bill did not have to undergo the difficult surgery to have their own probes removed. The good news seemed anticlimactic to say the least.

Then … _oh God!_ Gregg House's emergency surgery had been unnecessary. They could have allowed him to ride it out. But they respected him too much to take the chance of watching him die. History was repeating itself. Again. Would Gregg look at Jim Wilson now, and see that woman …Stacy? Would he feel betrayed by Jim as he had once felt betrayed by Stacy … what's-her-name?

Kip's eyes began to sting with the sudden realization of what might have been. He turned from the reception area and fled, ignoring the worried cries of Shaniqua Tolliver as she called after him.

In the corridor, Kip Bernoski stumbled along, leaning against the far wall and tried to bring himself under control. He was shaking, running hot and cold with the information he was still uncertain what to do with.

Gregory House would have been fine … if only they had chosen to let him alone. Now, Gregg and Jim might never trust him again. Or each other …

He had to not only bury his own best friend, but he had to tell two other best friends that he might have fucked up both their lives forever …

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	46. Chapter 46

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-Six -

"Picking Up the Pieces"

Earl Keirkgaard was buried Thursday afternoon. Paramar Clinic closed its doors in order that everyone who knew him could attend the viewing and the funeral.

His casket was plain and unadorned. His small, simple will stipulated that in lieu of flowers, contributions be made to the ongoing work of his colleagues. The clinic was his only beneficiary.

Earl had been a man alone, without family, except for those he spent his life with, and the patients he cared for. The funeral home was full to overflowing, and that in itself gave mute testament to the fact that one's chosen family was at least as lasting as the ones with ties only through blood.

Kevin Bernoski looked very different out of scrubs and into sports jacket and slacks. He stood around on the outskirts of the funeral parlor, head down, hands in pockets, looking as though he were trying to make himself as small as possible. In this matter, he was not very successful. One after another, every member of his staff, professionals, technicians and menials alike, kept a discreet eye on him, and biding their time, offered quiet support in pairs or threes, sharing cherished stories of Earl Keirkgaard and his work and his sunny personality and his wry sense of humor.

A few feet away, Bart Kirkpatrick and Lillian Chan made themselves inconspicuous in a corner of the room where Lillian kept an eye on Kip and reported everything she saw to Bart.

Bill Bernard and the Tollivers stayed close to the entrance and greeted those who wished to pay last respects. Earl would have been embarrassed at the hushed atmosphere, the dimmed lights and the lack of joking and laughter.

The viewing had only another fifteen minutes to go, and a local minister was moving silently among the mourners, offering a few words of condolence, shaking hands and getting ready to close with a brief service, according to Earl's Lutheran upbringing. The man looked around the room for Kip Bernoski, seeking to check with him as Earl's listed next-of-kin. Kip was nowhere to be seen, and the minister was puzzled for a moment …

There was a rustle of heavy draperies near the entrance from the hall into the viewing room, and the mystery of Bernoski's disappearance was solved. Kip stood still beside the doorway, gently holding the curtains away from the opening.

James Wilson, in dark suit and tie, pushed one of Paramar's heavy-duty wheelchairs carefully through it and into the room. Gregg House was bundled up like a very ill small child. The right leg rest of the chair was extended all the way, and he was enfolded to the waist with a light blanket. He wore a black turtleneck shirt with, possibly, only the boxer briefs beneath it, although that didn't really matter. No one would see them anyway.

Wilson pushed the wheelchair slowly to the alcove where Earl's casket stood solemnly beneath a pool of subdued light. Neither man spoke, but paused to look down at the serene, forever-sleeping face. Earl would never feel pain again.

Around the room, heads came up, and the clergyman frowned for a moment at the pause.

Then he realized who the man in the wheelchair must be. He had not yet been invited to approach, and so he did not. Instead, he studied the pinched face of Gregory House and wondered why the man had decided to attend, and what had moved him to get out of a sickbed to be here …

His answer came in a moment of unexpected movement. House indicated with the fingers of one hand that he wished to move closer to the casket. Wilson and Bernoski maneuvered the wheelchair so that one of its large wheels was almost touching the raised base of the bier. In that same instant, House reached out with his opposite hand and placed his palm on the while taffeta of the snowy pillowing. His head dipped until the expression on his face was not visible from anywhere in the room.

He spoke a few quick words for Earl to take with him into eternity, and grasped the snowy padding in a quick squeeze. He then indicated that he would like to be taken away from there with alacrity.

Wilson nodded to Bernoski and spoke a few words of his own to the blond doctor. Then he pushed Gregory House across the room and slowly, back out the door. Behind them, the roomful of people stood mesmerized, momentarily frozen in place.

"Let us pray …" said the minister, finally.

Twenty minutes later Earl Keirkgaard left for his final journey on Earth.

000000000

Three men from the Paramar maintenance staff assisted James Wilson in lifting Dr. House into the front seat of the freshly detailed Escalade. Gregg was tight-lipped and silent on the way back to the clinic, and Wilson drove slowly, not wishing to jar his friend's still-fragile body.

The same three men had followed the big SUV, and when it pulled up in front of the wheelchair ramp at Paramar, they once again lifted Gregg gently into the chair. Wilson unlocked the front door with Kip's key, and opened the entry of the ramp. The three men assisted in pushing House inside, then nodded goodbyes and left to return for Earl's funeral and interment.

Kip and Bill had allowed House to return to his and Wilson's quarters after lunch on Tuesday afternoon. The unrelenting pain in House's leg had begun to taper off in the middle of that night. For the first time in three days he was able to get a decent night's sleep.

By the next morning he had ceased to whine, ceased to bitch and ceased to rail against everyone and everything. He was physically and mentally exhausted and his depleted body looked small and ill beneath the covers of his big bed. But his disposition had taken a turn for the better. The strangeness of the phenomenon sent everyone into different paroxysms of alarm.

It took House himself with a few well-chosen words to bring it all to a halt.

"Shut up, willya?! I'm fine! Don't you people ever agree on _anything?"_

That same night, Bart Kirkpatrick stayed by House's bedside very late with his soft and tender hands once again on Gregg's shoulders. "Jimmy is going to begin helping you exercise your leg," Bart told him. "If your pain is really easing as much as you say it is, that's wonderful … but if you're hiding anything from us, it will show up soon enough, and you know I'm telling the truth. Chronic pain has a way of letting us know who's boss, and we'd rather you didn't try any macho stuff here …"

House got the message. He looked across the room and caught the watchful eye of James Wilson, sitting quietly on his own bed. He knew Wilson would be able to pluck a falsehood out of the air with no more effort than taking a deep breath. He sighed. "I'm not kidding. But the whole truth is … the pain is still there …" He held up a quick hand to stall sudden inhaled breaths and waylay anxious questions.

"Whoa … whoa … whoa … get the bright lights outa my eyes here! I'm not trying to get out of the exercises. I know I need them so I can begin to walk again. The pain from the surgical removal of the bugs was really a bitch from Saturday to today … but now that's slacking off. What's left is pretty much what was there before … maybe even tamed down a little from that. I won't know for sure until I can walk … and that won't be for awhile. My foot is still too sore.

"What is strange about it is that my leg keeps trying to go into spasm … and then it stops. Before I came here, I used to get the creepy-crawlies about once or twice a day. Today it hasn't spasmed at all. I'd say it's probably the residual aftereffects of the nanocites. I'm not bitching … I'm just hanging back to see which way it's gonna go this time. Okay?"

House looked from one man to the other, taking note that they both stared back at him with veiled skepticism: both the blind one and the sighted one. He sighed again. Deeper. And glared. They could think whatever they wanted to think. At the moment, fortunately, Wilson was not giving him a hard time, and that was about as close to another miracle as he could get for one day. He was sure he would pay for his friend's silence later.

Bart Kirkpatrick's warm fingers sent relaxing sensations into the nerves and muscles of his back and shoulders, and suddenly he began to feel very sleepy.

Gregg's eyes closed and his breathing evened out as consciousness left him and sleep overtook his senses. In his dreams he could feel soft breezes and see white clouds overhead. He'd experienced these dreams here before, and they were far preferable to dark visions of a big, beautiful dog dying under the front wheels of a bus …

Bart Kirkpatrick stepped back from the bed and dropped his hands to his sides. He turned his attention in the direction of James Wilson and spoke softly: "He will sleep now, even though he is still in some pain … and I must go." He smiled. "I'll see you both in the morning … figuratively, of course …"

He melted silently out of the room and into the corridor. His steps were graceful and sure. It was almost as though he could see exactly where he was going in his mind …

James Wilson looked after the old man with a puzzled expression. Saint Peter! Saint Peter was on his way back to guard the Pearly Gates … perhaps to open their portals and admit Earl Keirkgaard …

00000000

Gregg House did not sleep long. By 1:30 a.m. he was restless and tossing, moaning and beginning to thresh about.

Across the room, Wilson had been dozing; ever vigilant and sleeping with one eye open. He'd been over it and over it in his head about the lack of leg spasms House had reported. If that was indeed the case, James was happy about it, but something at the back of his mind kept telling him the lack of symptoms was but a harbinger of things to come. When the spasms returned … and they _would_ return … the percussions would be like miniature earthquakes!

Wilson threw back his covers and stood up quickly. House was awake, the glint of his eyes visible in the dim light. The fingers of his right hand were beginning to crawl, crab-like, toward his right thigh.

For some reason Wilson knew that, had he been able to bend his leg to any extent, the finger-crawl would continue on down past the knee, down across the calf and end at House's foot. It was not the leg that bothered him the worst, but the damned foot!

It occurred to Wilson suddenly as he sat and watched, if there might be a buildup of necrotic tissue in House's foot. Beneath the apparently healing skin of the ulcer, an escalating infection might be the cause of House's continued discomfort. The idea could not be discounted, and he was suddenly angry with himself for not thinking of it before. Obviously House had not thought of it either, but the man had enough on his plate …

Silently James padded across the room and lowered himself onto the edge of his friend's bed. He grasped the trembling fingers within his own and brought Gregg's hand across to rest against his chest. "Hey …"

Too-bright eyes met his own with a moment's suspicion, and House stared at their joined hands. "I figured I would hear from you later! What are you doing?"

"Just trying to keep you from hurting yourself. I'm thinking you might have a more serious problem than we realized. The ischemia in your foot may have caused tissue damage and maybe even necrosis. I'm going to ask Kip and Bill to do an ultrasound-assisted wound assessment in the morning … and maybe use ultrasound waves to separate possible necrotic tissue present from healthy tissue."

"I don't want anymore surgery! I'm through with all that." The blue eyes radiated finality.

Wilson pressed his fingers firmly to House's cheek, silencing him. "Please, House … your foot pain isn't going away, and we have to find out what's causing it. We've given it enough time to heal on its own, but it hasn't. An ultrasound will localize the problem, and then we can do surgical debridement quickly, and remove the dead tissue with little pain to you."

"No! It's healing. Bedsores are a pain in the ass … it just needs more time." But his insistence lacked the power of persuasion that characterized House's usual stubbornness. Inside the stack of pancakes that comprised his multi-layered brain, House was processing the idea …

Wilson smiled down at his friend gently and allowed himself to release the death grip he'd been maintaining on House's fingers. House met Wilson's eyes briefly, but did not withdraw into himself or turn away from the contact. He looked indeterminately sad.

"I understand how you must be feeling about this," Wilson said at length. "It hasn't been a very profitable experiment for you, has it? Six hundred miles in blinding pain … surgery that finally gave you release … then more surgery resulting in more pain because we were all afraid for your life. Now we find that the surgery wasn't even necessary … and not only has the original pain returned, but there's more heaped on you to cope with. House … I'm so … sorry …"

Gregory House sighed deeply and leaned back against his pillow. "Not your fault, Wilson. You were trying to help. You _always_ try to help … and we don't always give one another the benefit of the doubt. I keep suspecting you of imposing your will on me … and you think I'm a drug seeker who wants only to get high …"

Wilson nodded, suddenly feeling vindicated. House understood! "You're right about that," he admitted. "Maybe it's time the two of us decided to give each other a damn break!"

House smiled fleetingly and nodded. "Done! Now could ya please stop babysitting me and let me get back to sleep?"

Wilson rolled his eyes, but his mood had gone from despair to hopeful in just a heartbeat. "Then you'll let them do the ultrasound tomorrow?"

A sigh.

"Yeah …"

Wilson went back to his bed and pulled up the covers.

Across the room, House spoke once more before silence washed over the darkened room.

"Wilson … I need to get-the-hell home!"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hi Everyone. As you're probably already guessed, my Internet connection, constructed of "stone knives and bearskins" (a reference to Mr. Spock there) finally gave up the ghost last Friday night. Therefore, you didn't get the usual updates at the usual times.

We arrived home this evening, and here is Chapter 46, which should have been posted Saturday.

Early tomorrow morning I will give you Chapter 47, and continue uninterrupted (I hope) to the end of the story.

Thanks for hangin' in!

Bets;)

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	47. Chapter 47

"GUESSWORK"

Chapter Forty-Seven

"What Goes Around, Comes Around!"

Ultrasound brought the pocket of necrotic tissue out of its shallow hiding place in House's plantar fascia. Quick surgical debridement followed, and when it was over, healthy pink tissue was all that remained in or near the plantar area of House's wounded foot.

When he came out of the anesthetic for the final time, his only loopy comment was to gripe that his body was so full of antibiotics as to make it terminally sterile, and his starving pecker was going to think that it had suddenly turned into The Virgin Mary …

Wilson's only comment: "Very funny!"

Tyree Tolliver asked his mother what that meant. Shaniqua told him to, "Jus' y'awl never mind about that!"

The others, waiting in the recovery room at the time, simply snickered and shook their heads. Gregory House was going to be fine.

00000000

The evening meal on Friday night turned into a banquet of rich stories about Earl Keirkgaard and his adventures at Paramar Clinic. His exploits were catalogued from the time of his original quest for their surgical technique, to his work with Lillian Chan and Kevin Bernoski and the nanotechnology breakthroughs.

Gregg House was allowed out of bed and into the wheelchair for the occasion, although he still trailed a wheeled stanchion from which dangled two IVs. His foot was heavily bandaged this time, but he no longer bitched about the pain.

_Chalk one up for the good guys! _ Wilson thought.

Earl's favorite food had been spaghetti and meatballs, and Neeka had spent much of the day creating the sauce he had loved, preparing it with fond memories and tearful remembrances of her friend. When she served it that evening to the rest of his friends … both old and new … not all the watery eyes could be attributed to the onions and Louisiana Hot Sauce.

Someone asked House if he cared to share the words he had spoken in front of the casket at the funeral parlor.

A sudden silence fell over the gathering for a few moments, but gradually House looked up from his plate and silently surveyed his surroundings. He and Wilson would soon be on their way home, and logically this place and this experience would be a good thing to leave behind them. It had been a very long journey just to end up in the same place he'd started from. House cleared his throat and looked around the room. Their faces were questioning, not sure what his response might be. He no longer owed them anything, but a warm remembrance might be something Kip could use when he thought about his best friend in future years.

"Just said I wished we could have known each other a little longer, and I wished him a safe journey. And then I told him that he and I were lucky bastards in our choice of best friends … that's all …"

Beside him, James Wilson grinned shyly and bowed his head. Across the room at the other end of the table, so did Kip Bernoski.

Later that evening, Jim and Gregg informed their hosts that it was time for them to return home. As soon as House was fit for travel, they would return to New Jersey and go back to their lives there, and let the folks at Paramar get back to whatever was normal for them before he and Gregg entered upon the scene.

Wilson freed House of all his IVs and like restraints just before they returned to their quarters.

"Free at last," House quoted with a smirk. "Marty King …"

"Yeah, House," Wilson said with a sigh. "I get it. I got it the _last_ time!"

00000000

Saturday was a day for goodbyes.

Wilson wandered off with Bart and Lillian after breakfast, after checking with House to see whether he needed anything. House told him no, he was fine.

Kip disappeared later in the morning, and his colleagues looked at each other in puzzlement, wondering where he'd gotten to.

Gregg House, sitting by himself in his wheelchair for a change, gazed out one of the front windows at the cars parked in the lot outside, pursed his lips and shrugged, when a moment later, Shaniqua Tolliver asked him if he'd seen Kip.

Gregg was pretty sure he knew where the man had gone, but if he was right, then Kip Bernoski didn't want to be found, and Gregg would not offer any suggestions. He just said he hadn't seen him … which he hadn't.

House was in pain; not serious pain at the moment, but enough that he was not in a mood to be coddled by Wilson or touched by Bart, or teased by Bill. He needed, for a change, to be alone with his thoughts and try to figure out what the hell might be in store for him next. He sat by the window rubbing absently at his tender, aching thigh and staring straight ahead without actually seeing anything.

Across the reception area, Neeka stole glances across the room at her "Baby Boy", but kept her distance and did not bother him. His face told her it was not a good time to intrude into his thoughts, and she respected him enough to let him alone. He had wheeled out of the breakfast room abruptly, perhaps thinking he had revealed too much about his final words to Earl, and needed to resolve his feelings of having broken a confidence to a dead man.

00000000

On the other side of the building in the residence wing, the "missing man" kept himself busy packing Earl Keirkgaard's personal effects and mementos. In essence, Kip knew he was reducing his best friend's life to the cold and impersonal space of ordinary cardboard boxes. Not a fitting ending to someone as vital and alive as Earl had been.

Kip felt very vulnerable, sprawled there on his butt in the middle of the dark gray carpet of Earl's living room. All around him were strewn small remnants of Earl's essence: the pipe he smoked seldom, but kept because it had been his father's … a smattering of novelty key chains he collected because each one had a miniature carpenter's tool or a classic automobile as its charm.

There was a short stack of ancient 45rpm records of dubious origin, and another stack of old vinyl albums, pristine and still in their original sleeves. A pile of other trinkets and collectibles lay in a scattered circle around Kip Bernoski, each one with a story of its own and a plethora of bittersweet memories of a man who had taken leave of the world long before his time.

Kip paused in his gathering and thought again of Earl and the good times they'd shared from the day they'd first met …

00000000

Gregory House lowered his chin to his chest and let the sorrow he felt color his thoughts with a soft layer of blue notes, a lingering melody unfolding in his mind without a shred of conscious thought.

_Moonlight Cocktails._

His hands hovered above the armrests of the wheelchair as his brain fed his mind the fingerings to the song … and then he was playing it in the Key of D, for God's sake! He was seeing the keyboard in his head, his inbred perfect pitch scrolled the music across like a piano roll in front of his unfocused eyes. Two sharps … black keys and white … his fingertips poised above them …

And he heard singing … Russian national anthem …

_Jonesy! Dammit man … get out'a my head!_

House snapped out of his reverie and brought his head up, his mind slamming back to full awareness. No more dreamscapes! No more careening buses on busy city streets. No more underwater skirmishes or submarines in battle … and no more fantasy imaginings of a thing that could never be! He drew a deep halting breath and let it out through billowed cheeks. He would rather have the pain than submit to another surgery.

His hands went to the propelling rims of the wheelchair … and he pushed the big wheels into motion forcefully. Time to get the hell out of here and get moving.

Needing a distraction …

00000000

Kip could hear Earl's distinctive laughter echoing in his head. He could see the grin that revealed two uneven rows of big, crooked white teeth. The curly blond Scandinavian hair, the billowed cheeks and the cleft chin. Earl's image floated in front of his eyes like a grinning specter, and Kip found himself having trouble focusing.

He opened his hand, exposing a tiny porcelain mermaid, full breasts at attention, poking out at the world. She was smiling seductively. The thing had come from a shelf in a bar in Honolulu six months earlier. The one time the two of them had taken a side trip in search of funding for the clinic. They'd let their hair down one night and gotten drunk as skunks. Later they "staggered" back to their shared hotel room like thieves in the night, whooping and hooting … a peg leg cripple in Bermuda shorts and some drunken idiot in a mechanical wheelchair …

Kip heard a movement from the open doorway behind him. He turned to look.

Gregory House sat in his wheelchair, looking the same way Kip felt. They sat and stared at one another for an awkward interval, not moving.

Ah … what the hell … 

Kip raised his arm and beckoned Gregg inside with an expansive overhand gesture. "Just cryin' in my beer here," he said. "C'mon in, man … you can have the other corner of my towel …" He held up a misty half bottle of Michelob in mock salute.

The wheelchair crossed the threshold and stopped. Gregg's eyes widened as he took in the surroundings. At the same instant he came up short, instantly recognizing Kip Bernoski's absolute and total vulnerability. He was as helpless as though he were naked.

The man sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by piles of clutter and junk. He was wearing raggedy cutoffs and a raggedy tee shirt … and _one_ sneaker. Lying off to the side, crossed in the middle and looking like an old Maltese cross, a pair of aluminum crutches took up half the space of odd accumulation and scattered memories.

"You're not wearing your leg …" Gregg said unnecessarily.

"No shit Sherlock!" Kip growled. "Wanted to say goodbye to my friend on something like common ground." He took a swig of the beer and peered at House languidly.

"Want me to leave?"

"Nah! You had the cojones to figure where-the-hell I was. The others'll just let me alone 'til I get this out of my system. There's beer in the fridge if you want one …"

"I'm sorry about Earl."

"I know. We all are." Kip raised his head and looked House in the eye. "Remember what you said last night at supper … about you and Earl picking the right best friends?"

House frowned. "Yeah … why?"

"Thanks. I needed to hear somebody say that. You're a blunt bastard, House. I knew it from the beginning, I guess. But you're an _honest_ blunt bastard … and not everybody appreciates that. But I do … I wanted you to know ..."

"Thanks."

"Welcome. Can I tell ya something?"

"Yeah."

"The night before he died, Earl and I sat here in this room, shooting the shit and playing poker. I cleaned him out. I was going to take the money and take us both out for supper and drinks some night. Now it'll never happen, and I'm sorry about that. But your name came up … yours and Jim's."

House's interest intensified. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Kip looked down at the carpet, suddenly unsure whether or not to go on. House was staring a hole in the middle of his forehead.

"I asked him if he thought the two of you were … 'together' …"

"You mean … as in _together_-together?"

"Yeah."

"What'd he say?"

"He said no. I trusted him, so I believed him. "Are you?"

House blinked. He was very familiar with the concept of believing-not believing. It was almost the same as _like you_-like you. Had even toyed with its connotations from time to time. But the truth, for him and Wilson had always been: "no".

He shook his head, letting a snarky smile steal across his mobile features. "Huh-uh. Sorry to disappoint you. I like tits and he likes pussy … so I guess it wouldn't work out between us … thanks for asking though!"

The two of them sat together for another hour with bottles of beer in their hands, and made a toast to Earl Kierkgaard for being right. They laughed in the manner of men who laugh when they are remembering good times with best friends … and thinking with the "little brain": the one far removed from the bigger one in their heads.

Bernoski looked House in the eye and held up his bottle in a final toast. "I'll miss you, big guy … and I know how you feel about more surgery on that leg of yours. I'd be done with it too. I hope things work out for you, and I'm really sorry about what happened …"

House snorted a breath through his nose. He'd been rubbing his thigh and hadn't even noticed. "Wasn't in the cards … so to speak. Not your fault, Bernoski."

He set his empty beer bottle on the end of the coffee table and reached for the drive wheels. "I'm going back to the room now. Need to take my meds and have Wilson take a look at this foot …

"For what it's worth … what I said at supper last night was as much for Wilson as it was for you. You're free of pain, Bernoski … but I'm luckier than you. I still have my best friend. I got the better bargain." He swung the chair around and left the room; left Kip Bernoski to his memories.

"I get the message!" Kip called after him, but Gregg was too far down the corridor to reply.

00000000

"Ow! Fuck! You digging a sewer, Wilson?"

"No … hold still! I'm not hurting you!"

"You are _so_ hurting me! Damn!" House hissed a breath through his teeth.

Wilson paused to give House a moment's respite, knowing his six-year-old was in pain. The swelling was slowly receding from the latticework of new butterflies across the arch of his friend's sore foot, and he had no doubts the area throbbed greatly. But the application of the antibiotic wash was necessary to combat infection. (How many times had he said that during the past two weeks?) He dabbed on a thin-combo layer of Bacitracin, Neomycin and Polymyxin, spread it over the little bandages, covered them with a thick pad of gauze, then adhesive-taped it in place with gentle strokes.

House kept hissing and jerking his leg away from the touch. "God, that hurts!" He complained. "Willya hurry up, for cryin' out loud!"

Wilson sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. His back ached from bending over, and he still had the thigh sutures to do. Gently he wet another gauze pad with the cold antiseptic wash and daubed it on the four areas of heavy stitches near House's surgical scars. This time, the complaining was less, because the surgery up there was a little further along in the healing process. But there was still hissing and grunting and eye rolling and a general attitude of malaise.

Wilson grinned sympathetically as he applied more of the antiseptic cream to House's thigh. The large dressing covered the entire wound area in a single application, and Wilson wound a wide Ace bandage loosely around the thigh to hold it in place. "I swear to God," he said in a muted voice, "you have so many damn stitches in you that you're beginning to resemble a sock monkey!"

House grunted and lowered his leg back onto the pillow that cradled it. "I would have said 'baseball'. More manly!"

"Or 'Hacky Sack' …"

"Raggedy Andy!"

"Afghan."

"Fishing net! OW!"

"Shut up, House!"

"Yes, Mother."

"House?"

"What?!"

"I'm going to call Amtrack to have your bike delivered to Princeton. I don't want to pull it behind the car while you're with me. Okay with you?"

House raised himself onto his elbows. "What brought that on?"

"I don't wanna have to keep checking in the rear-view mirror on a damned motorcycle trailing along behind me, when I'm trying to take care of you while you're in the seat right beside me!"

"Aww … that's sweet, Wilson."

"Answer me! Is that okay?"

"Sure. Do whatever you want. This is gonna be your parade."

"And if you want to leave, then I think tomorrow would be the right time. These people need to get on with their work, and we're kinda turning into super-cargo … if you know what I mean."

"Okay. Works for me. You know what?"

"What?"

"This whole adventure has turned into the biggest wild goose chase I've ever been on in my life. Guesswork and irony. Twelve hundred miles worth!" House's words were flat with non-emotion. Forced non-emotion.

Wilson wished he had an answer to that, but there wasn't one. Instead, he placed his warm hand on House's knee and lifted his eyes to the wall across the room.

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	48. Chapter 48

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Forty-Eight -

"An Old Man's Gift"

A sunny Sunday morning …

Warm North Carolina breezes and fleecy white clouds lied to the world and bragged that it was early in June, and not really the middle of March. The sun was climbing steadily in the sky and bouncing its glaring rays off every glass and metallic surface that could reflect back.

The big Escalade SUV, with all House's and Wilson's belongings packed in the back, was parked at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp of Paramar Clinic. Its gleaming white surface bounced the sun's rays outward with retina-burning intensity. Its motor was already running, the powerful A/C set on "low", and time was slowly counting down to the moment when it would be back on the road, northbound.

The large black wheelchair emerged slowly from the door at the top of the ramp, and Gregory House found himself squinting in the sun's brightness. He was so frail looking in the daylight. His clothing hung off him like a raincoat on a fishing rod, and his pale skin was reminiscent of frosted glass, almost translucent in the glare of 9:00 a.m. brightness.

His bum leg and foot were encased in a lightweight aluminum and Velcro brace that ran its entire length overtop his pantleg, and the leg was extended stiffly in front of him. He was not happy about it, but he'd had no choice in the matter. He'd been outnumbered seven-to-one … even the damn kid had chimed in on the matter … and so he would begin his journey back to New Jersey trussed up like a mummy en route to a museum.

Inside Gregg's head, however, where all his devious thoughts roiled together like witches' brew in a cauldron, he was determined that the fucking brace would be _gone_ by the time the SUV crossed the Carolina-Virginia border!

_Bet me!_

Behind his wheelchair, Kip Bernoski, once more a burly, two-legged hunk in blue jeans and scrub top, held tightly to the handgrips as he eased the chair down the ramp with a minimum of jostling to Gregg's body. "You take it easy, man," he was saying. "When you get home, give us a call and let us know how you are. The emotional investment we have in you two guys is worth more to us than all the money on the freaking planet, and we need to know how it is with both of you. Okay?"

House turned his head and squinted upward. "I'll try to remember that, ya damn Indian-Giver!" There was a hint of humor in the rejoinder, and Kip wondered momentarily what it had cost House to acknowledge the clinic's multitude of failures in such a light manner.

"See that you do!" He snarked back.

Behind them, the entire professional staff of Paramar closed in around the wheelchair to extend warm wishes and farewells … all except for Lillian Chan, who had remained behind out of necessity. She and Gregg and Jim had said their goodbyes the night before, and the two men had hugged her gently and kissed her on cheek and forehead with thanks and best wishes … and encouragement for her ongoing "Christopher Reeve" research.

Alone later in her sterile cubicle, Lillian had mournfully played _Moonlight Cocktails_ on her magic piano and cried quietly in the privacy of her sanctuary. Even her Techies turned their backs temporarily to her sorrow and regret, allowing her some privacy.

00000000

In the sunlit parking lot, James Wilson held the passenger door of the Escalade open as far as it would go. He had already maneuvered the luxurious leather seat back and down, all the way to its limits. With care, House would be able to ride in relative comfort with pillows wedged against his body and his legs, and another behind his back.

The wheelchair sat facing the open car door, his bad foot close to the forward post. Kip reached down and engaged the brakes on the big wheels so the chair would not surge suddenly forward and hurt him. All they had to do now was assist Gregg to slide slowly across into the seat and maneuver his legs into the cubby beneath the dash.

The crutches House had used the day Bobby died were already lying across the wide back seat. He'd vehemently refused to load up the wheelchair, muttering under his breath that … "you'd think I was a goddamn cripple or something …" and … "these freakin' things are a dime a dozen where I come from …"

They rolled their eyes collectively and abandoned the wheelchair, stark and empty, where it stood.

00000000

On the driver's side of the car, James Wilson stood with his head lowered, both hands positioned on the sturdy shoulders of Bartholomew Kirkpatrick. Bart was talking to him in a low voice, and James nodded from time to time, knowing Bart could feel his body movements, solemnly acknowledging the old man's words.

"I know you'll do well with this, Jimmy. It's a gift that was meant to be shared, I think. I don't understand it and I don't pretend to, but you're a man of compassion, and I could feel it in my bones that you'd be able to handle it. I never tried to give it away before, and I don't think Gregory was able to reap all the benefits with me. With you though, I think he will. Remember what we talked about yesterday, and you'll both be fine with all of it."

Wilson nodded deeply again, finding it difficult to come up with words that would express what he felt. Finally he sighed, and moved his palms from Bart's shoulders to both sides of the old man's face. "Thank you," he said. "You honor me, and you honor House. I'll do my best not to disappoint you …"

Suddenly they were clasping each other in a bear hug of great extreme, and then backing away again for propriety's sake, both laughing softly with what looked very suspiciously like embarrassment when they felt all eyes upon them.

Bart turned away with solemn dignity, angled his body against the body of the SUV, judging his distance, then walked away from the remainder of the gathering, grasped the handles of the empty wheelchair and pushed the conveyance slowly up the ramp ahead of him. He disappeared inside without another word.

James Wilson stood still and watched the blind man's retreating back until he gradually disappeared into the gloom beyond the doorway. Then he looked across the hood of the Escalade and raised his eyebrows at Kip, Bill, Neeka and Tyree. He shrugged and said nothing further, but was already picturing in his mind the interrogation to come later when he and House were on the road. Actually, he welcomed anything House cared to ask. His friend was going to get an earful.

00000000

"Don't forget to have Jim help you do the exercises with that leg!" Bill was telling House. "You need to try to get your mobility back as soon as possible … you know how important it is. Some old guy in a wheelchair is one thing … but a macho dude like you riding one for the rest of his life would really suck!"

House tore his attention away from the perplexing scene with Wilson and Kirkpatrick and glared at Bernard with his lip raised in a half-friendly, half-aggravated sneer. "Do you even _begin_ to realize how _huge_ is this choir you're preaching to? It's as big as the Herald Angels, the Boys' Choir of Harlem and the Mormon Tabernacle combined …"

Bernard glared for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks like a chipmunk. "Sorry, House … you asshole … but you know what I meant …"

House grinned and held out his hand. "I know. Thanks, Bill."

"Anytime," Bernard replied. "Good luck, man." They shook hands, both grinning.

00000000

Behind him, Tyree Tolliver groaned with impatience at all the "mush", and broke free of his mother's side. Boldly, he clunked forward until he was leaning against the side of the car's open passenger door. With a silly look on his face, he scrunched down until he could peer at House through the open window. He dropped the handgrips of his crutches and dug in a pants pocket. Brought out his iPod and ear buds and held them extended in both hands. "Here," he said, holding his tiny treasure out to House. "Take this! I know yours finally bit the dust. Next time you ride 600 miles in the rain, stuff the thing somewhere that it don't get drowned. An' think of me when you use it … an' remember what I good kid I am. I'm sure gonna remember _your_ goofy ass!"

Tyree dropped the iPod into Gregg's cupped hand and smirked at the man's truly astounded expression. He clumped hurriedly away in the direction of the lower parking lot without waiting for thanks or even acknowledgment. Anyone who saw Gregg House as a mean-tempered grouch, he thought, was just _so_ full of shit! He was too damned big to let anyone see the tears that were running down his face.

His mother looked after him in wide-eyed surprise. "Did that boy just say what I _thought_ he just said?"

House grinned. "Yep." He stared at the iPod. "You sure it's okay for him to do this? These things don't grow on trees."

Shaniqua smiled disarmingly. "Well, it's worth it just to see that he's got a generous nature … and that he respects somebody worth respecting. Take it with our blessing, 'Baby Boy'." Her grin was splashed all over her painted face.

"Thanks …" He might have said more, but the emotional display would have been embarrassing.

Shaniqua came around the door of the SUV and bent over to put her arms around House's neck. She squealed as he rose to the challenge, reached to draw her close and bussed her soundly on the lips. She didn't fight him, but rode with it, and then drew away with eyes and mouth wide open. "Whoa!"

He was smirking, extending a forefinger, beckoning her to lean closer in order to whisper in her ear. All around them, hoots and catcalls came from the three men still standing there. She ignored them and leaned down.

"That'll show you who's a 'baby boy' and who's not! Still think I'm a 'baby boy'?"

Neeka rose to her full height, smiling, and there was something suddenly beautiful in her dark eyes and in the deep bronze face framed with the bizarre orange hair. "Y'awl are _really_ Denzel Washington with a bleach job!"

House guffawed and the others looked puzzled.

00000000

Kip was the last. This time it was he who initiated the bear hug with James Wilson, and even appeared to enjoy it.

His final handclasp with Gregory House was a sandwich of both Kips's hands enclosing one of Gregg's. "You guys taught me some very rich lessons without even knowing it," he said at last. "And that's all I'm gonna say, because I don't want to make an ass of myself by getting all misty over you. Get your asses out of here, drive careful, and have a good trip back." He removed his hands, backed away and closed the passenger door. His fingers trailed briefly down across Gregg's shoulder.

Then as a P. S.: "I'll give ya a call when the Amtrack folks pick up your bike!"

00000000

Wilson climbed behind the wheel and closed the driver's door with a solid "chunk", thinking of it as the "period" at the end of a very long "sentence" … word play intended.

When he turned the Escalade onto Farmington Road and headed for the interstate, a glimpse in the rearview mirror showed three hands still waving in the air from the parking lot. He thought about waving back … but a period was a period. The sentence was ended, and they were on their way home.

Passing through late-morning Sunday traffic on the outskirts of Raleigh, Wilson took his eyes off the road momentarily to check on House. His friend was reclined all the way back in the comfortable seat with his bum leg pillowed and stretched before him. Gregg still looked pained. His face was turned toward outside traffic, but his face was reflected in the side window.

While stopped at one of the many traffic lights near the interstate ramp, Wilson paused and leaned across to get House's attention. "Doin' okay?" He asked.

House swung his head back in the opposite direction to catch Wilson's eye. "I'm fine." He then turned back again, firmly noncommittal.

Wilson sighed. _Back to the same old same old …_

The light turned green and they were off again. The arrow on the sign pointed to the right … 85 North … and Wilson canted the wheel to make the ramp.

As they left the city behind, House turned his head again and stared at Wilson. "Wasn't trying to be an ass," he said. "My head is buzzing like a beehive right now. My leg isn't far behind …"

Wilson smiled and nodded acknowledgment. _My God! He's talking! _

"Need your meds?" He asked. "They're still right here in my jacket pocket …"

House grunted in the affirmative. "Yeah … could you?"

"Of course." Wilson reached for the Vicodin vial and handed it across. House thumbed off the lid, dry swallowed one and handed the vial back. Wilson took it, looked at it with a puzzled expression, looked back at House. "Why don't you hang onto it … they're your meds after all."

"No. That's how I got in trouble the first time."

"Huh?" _Am I really hearing this?_

"Rehab, remember?" House's voice sounded dry, brittle. Wilson listened closely.

"What about it?"

"Don't want to start that downhill spiral all over again. Alternative pain management … working at getting my meds regulated … maybe listening to you a little bit more … not trying to run the show all by myself …

"Dammit, Wilson … this trip wasn't a complete washout. I've done a lot of thinking. I thought I could make everything better if only I could find something to make the physical pain go away. But there's other pain besides physical. Those people taught me a hard lesson too … along with convincing me I was one lucky bastard because I have a friend like you. And I thought about that … and … God … how I hate to admit this! They were right. I had the world by the tail on a downhill drag, and too fuckin' stupid to see it … and if you ever repeat that to another living soul … I will beat the livin' shit right out of you!"

James Wilson struggled to keep a straight face. "And this is … the reason why you're asking me … _ME?_ … to regulate your meds? Why thank you, House. You might just end up amounting to something yet."

"Fuck you, Wilson."

His face was turned to the window again; he had just finished inserting the ear buds of Tyree's iPod into his ears, and his right hand gently palpitated his thigh. There was a smirk at one corner of his mouth.

As the miles fell away rapidly beneath the big tires, Wilson thought: just wait 'til I tell him what Bart asked me to tell him …

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

12


	49. Chapter 49

"GUESSWORK"

Chapter Forty-Nine

"The More Things Change …"

"No, my friend, forget it! We are _not_ going to drive straight through. No damn way, House!"

"I was having pleasant visions of sleeping in my own goddamn bed tonight!"

"What? The only bed you're gonna be sleeping in … after tonight, Ace … is one of the private rooms on the fourth floor of PPTH!"

"When elephants fly!"

"House, you don't _really_ want elephants to fly. You wouldn't want to get bombed by one."

"Fuck you, Wilson!"

"Baltimore, House! We get off at _Baltimore!_ Now turn around in your seat, stretch out and sit still. I _should_ kick your ass for taking that brace off your leg. God! You _know_ you're going to set it to hurting like hell!"

"More than it already does? My foot felt like a lead weight with that freakin' thing on. Now that it's off, it only feels like a football with a bone in it!"

"Yeah, I know! You're enough to make a sane man cry."

"And you're enough to make a preacher swear!"

"Baltimore, House! We get off at _Baltimore!_ Relax. We'll be there in another hour."

"Go on up to the Towson exit then."

"Why?"

"'Cause there's a Raddison there … and a Marriott. No steps to climb at either place."

"How would you know?"

"'Cause I went off there for lunch on the way down."

"Oh. Okay. Which one?"

"Which one what?"

"Raddison or Marriott?"

"Who cares? You're driving!"

"Go to sleep!"

"Going!" House grunted.

00000000

"Hey … House …"

"Ummnh … huh?"

"We're here."

"'Here'?"

"The Marriott. We're parked right out front. Reach in the glove compartment and hand me the 'handicap' placard, willya?"

House shook his head, rolling it back and forth, waking up. He leaned forward, reaching for the glove compartment. "Ahhh … Jesus! OW!" His hand flew to his leg.

Wilson leaned over and reached across House's body to pull the plastic contract case from the glove compartment. He extracted the "handicap" placard and placed it in a strategic place between dashboard and windshield. Then he reached across again and put the case back. "I told you!" He accused gently. "How bad?"

House grimaced. "Bad …"

Most of the problem had to do with House's uncomfortable position in his seat. Without the brace on his leg, the limb was prone to bend in an unnatural manner, and that in turn, had caused the recent stitches to pull and swell. Once he'd straightened his body in the seat, and leaned a little further into the backrest, his pain diminished. He took a deep breath and expelled it through his teeth. "This is getting to be such a pain in the ass again. Christ, I hate it when you're right!"

Wilson smiled. "I know. Let me know when you're ready to go inside."

"That would be now."

"Sit still then, 'til I get your crutches out of the back seat. You gonna be able to do this okay?"

"Yeah … unless you decide you'd rather carry me …"

"Don't be an ass!"

"You asked …"

The outside air was colder in Baltimore than it had been in Raleigh. Wilson was wearing his windbreaker, but House was clad only in jeans and a tee shirt. His disabled foot was bare, except for the bandage. The leather jacket was buried in the back of the SUV.

Wilson had not given a thought to the changes in temperature when he'd packed things for transport early that morning. He hurried around to the passenger side and gestured for House to scroll down the window. An icy blast gusted through the opening with a shrill whistle, and House flinched back against the biting cold.

"Whoa!"

"Wait 'til I dig your jacket out of the back. I need to find something to cover your foot."

House held up his hand. "Never mind," he said. "You can get it later. I can make it in there okay … it's not that far. How frozen can you possibly get, walking straight to a door that opens into 'toasty'?"

"You sure?" Wilson looked doubtful. "You can have my jacket if you want it …"

"I'm fine!" He scrolled up the window and opened the door, grasping the crutches Wilson had pulled from the back seat.

Wilson walked behind and slightly to House's right as his friend lurched clumsily across the windy brick veranda and approached the glass doors of the hotel lobby. Inside was a warm, roomy expanse with comfortable contemporary furniture, handsome dark carpeting and smooth mahogany occasional tables. There were a dozen-or-so people moving about here and there, but the immense size of the room made it seem like fewer than that. Snatches of subdued conversation floated lightly on the air.

House paid no attention to anything other than his own progress. His foot was pounding like a tom-tom. He limped to the nearest vacant sofa and sat down clumsily, dropping the crutches on the floor. He reached beneath his thigh to adjust the position of his painful, cumbersome leg. In spite of the warmth of the room, his foot was already cold, and he grimaced at the discomfort, leaning forward to hide any outward show.

Nearby, a pair of idle bellmen stood together, watching nervously, but making no move to offer assistance.

Wilson waited until House was situated, and then walked across the room to the desk to check them both in for the night. A clock behind the counter told him it was only 4:30 p.m., although it had already begun to darken outside when he'd pulled off the interstate.

There were two women working the counter, one of them older and wiser. Wilson recognized all the signs of instant pity, and held his breath. She was already looking across to House with mounting intensity.

"My friend and I need a single room," he said quickly, hoping to waylay any display of motherly concern. "Two beds, double occupancy … preferably on the ground floor … and nearby, please." He indicated House, sitting awkwardly on the sofa, and smiled with, he hoped, the right amount of brotherly devotion. "He recently had surgery, and he's in some pain. I'm his doctor."

It wasn't a complete lie.

Wilson withdrew his credit card and AMA card and placed them together on the counter with a snap. The older woman ran the Visa card through the slot and stared at the readout. Beside her, a younger, pretty, dark-haired woman checked Wilson out appraisingly from beneath long lashes. Wilson's pulse raced. He could not deny an interest.

"Room eight …right down that hallway." The older one pointed to the left, sensing electricity crackling in the air. "The room is handicapped-accessible, Dr. Wilson, and I'm sure your friend will be fine there. If you'd like to see to his comfort first and then come back here, I can have one of our people help you with your luggage. Will that be satisfactory?" The tiny smile on her face spoke of complete understanding of the nature of things ….

Wilson nodded. He was probably exuding layers of testosterone. "Great. Thank you." He smiled at both women as the younger one slid a plastic access card with seductive grace across the counter in front of him. Unreasonably, he found himself wishing he were traveling alone.

Wilson picked up all three cards and returned quickly to House's side. "We have a room right down the hall … that way." He pointed to a corridor off toward House's right. "Let's get you back there and situated, and then I'll come back here for our stuff … what there is of it …and see about something warm for you to wear."

House smirked, reading Wilson's churning mind without any trouble. He grasped the crutches that Wilson held out to him, and lurched to a halting, three-cornered stance.

"Bet you'd like to see the old cripple melt into the woodwork right about now … wouldn't you?"

"Come on!" Wilson growled. "You assume an awful lot sometimes, House. Drag your sorry ass back to the room and lie down. I'll bring my med bag and do your stitches, and maybe give you a shot for the pain. After you rest awhile, we'll get room service and see what they have to offer on pay-per-view. Okay?"

"Works for me," House grunted. He was tired. Testy for no reason. Sometimes it pissed him off when Wilson flirted shamelessly in front of him. His friend had had little chance in Raleigh, and was beginning to make up for it.

House limped off along the hallway, halting and in pain, with Wilson close behind.

00000000

"Feeling better now?"

It was nearing 8:00 p.m. Wilson had wandered around, taking his time, letting House rest. He knew the man was exhausted and hurting, and he really wanted to avoid being the victim of Gregg's ill humor. He was not in the mood tonight.

He'd made a trip to the hotel's well-stocked gift shop, casting about for any sign of the pretty reception clerk. She had disappeared. He sighed. _Damn!_ He wandered aimlessly, bringing his eager body back under control, looking for something suitable in warm attire for himself and House. And perhaps a bottle of something intoxicating! A warm and enticing female body, stretched out next to his own, had been too much to ask …

House was leaning against the headboard of the bed now, propped up with two of the hotel's pillows, plus two they'd brought along from Paramar. Wilson had rebandaged his foot and thigh before he left, and elevated the limb to a level even with his body; high enough to keep downward blood flow from causing further edema. The big heating pad he'd dug out of the hatch lay wrapped around House's lower leg and foot. Gregg reminded Wilson of an elegant housecat staring at him disdainfully from the back of a velvet sofa.

House nodded. "Yeah. I'll live. What are you … the 'Geek Bearing Gifts'?"

Suspiciously, he eyed the bouquet of plastic gift bags that Wilson cradled beneath one arm, but brightened appreciatively at the narrow, telltale paper bag he brandished in the opposite hand: obviously booze of some kind.

"Very funny!" Wilson groused. "You're on a roll." He tossed the plastic bags down on the surface of House's bed and watched in amusement as they slid every which way.

House picked up one of the bags and peered inside. It was a man's sweatshirt, and he drew it out cautiously. Embossed boldly across the front was a fierce looking purple Raven's head with a big yellow "B" printed in the middle of it. House smirked. "If I wear one of these to New Jersey," he remarked, "I'll get shot! Again!"

Wilson snorted. "So look at the other ones!"

House picked up another bag and dumped its contents by his side. It was a very expensive white cotton tee shirt with a cartoon bird in a baseball hat. The bird was dark blue, trimmed in orange. The neckband and both sleeves were ringed in dark blue. The bird had a smile on its face. House made a face that very closely parroted the look of the bird, and glared up at Wilson. "Baltimore Orioles," he said. "Wow! A difference that makes no difference …"

"… _IS_ no difference!" Wilson finished the quote for him. Yeah, I know. I've really gotta watch it, y'know that? I'm beginning to finish your sentences for you."

House guffawed. "I noticed." He held up the heavy sweatshirt and looked at it again. "Too bad you had the bell-guy bring in my leather jacket. This is a cool shirt. Really looks warm. Thanks. Think I'll wear it home."

Wilson frowned. "I thought you …"

"I'll just have to get out of the car under cover of darkness," he said, "so I don't get recognized. If they don't recognize me, they won't shoot me. Again!"

Wilson wrinkled his nose, trying to keep from laughing. "I got _that_ the first time too, smartass!"

House was still smiling at his own joke when a knock came at the door.

"Were we expecting somebody?" Wilson asked, puzzled.

"I ordered a pizza awhile ago … you got your wallet handy? I figured you'd be back pretty soon. No conquests tonight!"

James shook his head and sighed, but didn't take the bait. He opened the door and yanked his wallet from his hip pocket.

Pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. The pizza looked to be three inches high and two feet around. They ate like starving lumberjacks and guzzled two glasses each of fine Scotch that warmed their stomachs, and after awhile, their dispositions.

By the time they polished off most of the pizza and drank most of the liquor, they were both bleary eyed, and House was beginning to shift around, trying to readjust the heating pad.

_Superman Returns _exploded its way along unnoticed on the big TV across the room.

House's hands were on his thigh again, the right one reaching lower, toward the foot. His stitches were pulling, and he was feeling it in increased waves of discomfort.

Looking into his friend's face, Wilson felt for him. He stood up unsteadily and moved across to the other man's bed. He sat down on the edge and moved the plastic bags and the new shirts onto the side table between them.

"Move over here," he said to House. "Move over where I can put my hands on your shoulders."

House stiffened and glared at Wilson, face filled with sudden suspicion. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just move over!" Wilson insisted. "Bart Kirkpatrick taught me something and insisted I share it with you."

House did not move. "Huh? Taught ya what?" His words were a little slurred.

So were Wilson's. "Jus' move over here and do as I say." He waggled his fingers enticingly.

House slid his body cautiously sideways as Wilson asked, wincing slightly as he did so. "Yeah? Now what?"

Wilson lifted his arms and slid one of them around the back of House's neck, settled both palms lightly on House's bony shoulders. "Lean back. It'll take awhile probably, because I'm new at this … but Bart showed me how." His fingers and the heels of his hands were already kneading House's shoulders. He saw the goose bumps appearing on House's arms. The taut muscles were loosening. It was working already.

House leaned backward and groaned with pleasure. Wilson kept kneading as Bart had instructed. One might have thought that his hands would be cramped and aching. But they weren't. His thumbs kneaded lightly near House's carotid pulses. Lightly, lightly.

Wilson worked for a half hour, then withdrew. House was like a wet dishrag beside him. "What the hell did you just do to me?" He breathed.

"How do you feel?"

Like I'm floating. What … ?"

"Shhh … relax. Part of Bart's gift. He told me yesterday that you asked him if he did hocus-pocus … or the Vulcan Mind Meld. He thought that was funny. I didn't believe him at first … but it's true. He told me something happened to him right after he lost his sight. He found that he could blank out pain for a short time. He laid his hands on my shoulders … and I laid my hands on his … and he taught me."

House stared at Wilson incredulously, intellect warring with childhood fantasy … applied science versus fairy tales. "Is that what the two of you were doing before we left today? Another stupid Vulcan Mind Meld?"

Wilson nodded shyly.

"Somethin' like that. I choose to believe it, House … until I don't!"

Wilson's eyes had a faraway look. "In case you were wondering, that's why I asked you to take back control of your medication. You don't need me around to ladle it out like candy. And you don't _ever_ have to worry that I'll start lecturing you again for taking it when you need it. I won't doubt you anymore. Neither will anybody else. I swear"

"Wilson, you scare me. I don't believe a word you say about this 'Vulcan mind meld' crap. But _you _believe it because Bart believes it. That's the most fucked-up thing I ever heard. But thanks for believing me about the meds thing. I really do depend on it, ya know."

"House?"

Gregg's head snapped up.

"You're welcome. Now shut up!"

House sighed. "Can we go to sleep now, Wilson? Because my leg stopped hurting and my foot stopped hurting, but I think that's because we're both a little drunk … and not because of elfin magic! You can get the hell out of my bed now, and go get the hell into your own … an' I'll see you in the morning."

House was already half asleep when he felt the weight beside him move carefully away.

"Night Wilson-n-n …"

"Night House …see you in the mornin' … you jerk …"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

20


	50. Chapter 50

"GUESSWORK"

- Chapter Fifty -

"Simple Gifts"

_Oh crap! I didn't realize how late it was._

The office is dark except for the damn streetlights that I can't turn off. I have the blinds closed, but the glow that still comes through looks like a UFO is hovering outside the window. I _hate_ this time of night.

Feeling sorry for myself again. Can't seem to shake it. Wilson says I remind him of a six-year-old.

Well screw him! 

My foot and leg are still unstable. Hurts like hell if I step the wrong way. All the surgical sites are healed over now, but I can't wear a shoe, so I'm on crutches or in the damn wheelchair. My leg burns and buzzes just like it did before. No surprises there. The spasms have tamed down since the nanocite fiasco though. Small favors, I guess. You win a few; you lose a few. Wilson insisted that I take over my own meds. Says my time in rehab will leave me with a residual guilt that'll keep me from doing something unutterably stupid again. How the hell does he _know_ this shit??

It's nearly midnight and I'm sucking on another Vicodin, staring at the glare through the window. Sometimes I wonder whether I have lost whatever's left of my old self in the aftermath of overblown expectations and consequent disappointment. Illogical, I guess, but I get the cold sweats if I think about having another surgery. So I try not to think about it.

I had a patient die on my watch today. I was too late with the final diagnosis, and the team was unable to bring him back from the brink in time to save his life. I may have taken on the case too soon, because I'm still not healed enough in mind or body to be totally effective. Helluva time to figure that out! I'm having all kinds of damn doubts, and I hate myself for it. But it's no excuse. I failed, and that failure was my responsibility. It put a man in the ground.

Was I in some way responsible for putting Earl Keirkgaard in the ground too?

Wilson was here earlier, worried as usual, and about half pissed off that I didn't want to talk about any of that stuff. Wanted to know if I was ready for him to take me home. They delivered the bike last week, but it still sits in the garage out back with the car. Right now I can't handle either one, and he's been dragging my sorry ass back and forth to work. I'll probably call a taxi when I decide to go home. _If _ I decide to go home.

In my usual courteous manner, I told Wilson to get his ass the hell out of here and leave me alone …among other things not nearly so polite. I still have a case file to go over and final notes to make. He touched me on my shoulder and I went off on him. I feel crappy about it now, but I can't turn back the clock, so screw it! By the time I finished my tirade, he'd turned on his heel and left. I didn't see him after that. And I still haven't done the workup on the file … and I have this nagging need to apologize … what the fuck is _wrong_ with me?

I hate myself for treating Wilson this way. I know what he did for me in Raleigh … the sacrifices he still makes all the time on my behalf, and the generosity he offers to this crippled old fool who doesn't deserve it, or even acknowledge it. He cleans up my place, buys my groceries and cooks my meals. He asks nothing in return, other than maybe an evening here and there with pizza and beer and a little blues piano and a little friendship.

And I treat him like shit, then crawl back into my black hole.

I'm only now beginning to realize the miracle of the closeness we shared at Paramar Clinic. I'd like to find a way to get that back … but I don't know how.

I have a tendency to hide from life more than usual these past few weeks. It may have something to do with the sense of failure that settled in after Raleigh. Or it may be the fact that the passage of time is gaining on me, and fate has begun to scream the truth of my own mortality in my ear.

For years I had this image of myself as "damaged hero", a modern Lord Byron: in pain but aloof. Tragic but unbowed. I even have the clubfoot to show for it! I'm amused at such foolishness now. If I'm anything … it certainly aint "aloof" and certainly not "unbowed".

The kids in my department were all sympathy and solicitude for a few days after Wilson and I came back to work. Especially Cameron … all big-eyed and dewy and sorrowful. I couldn't make a damn move without her pulling out my chair, pouring my coffee, bringing me bottles of water; waiting on me hand and foot. I think she would even have offered to hold my pecker for me while I went to the head … if I'd have asked her to. God, how that condescension makes me cringe! Always did.

Even Foreman and Chase wore kid gloves for the first couple of days. All quiet and polite and accommodating. Watching me like hawks watching a mouse; looking as though they thought I might suddenly fall on my ass in front of them. Jesus! You'd think they never saw a man on crutches or in a wheelchair before!

Damn good thing they weren't around me the first year or so after the infarction …

I figured most of the goody-goody crap was because Cuddy and Wilson filled them in on the nanocite failure that wasn't _really_ a failure. They probably found out I turned down the surgery to have them reinserted, and they think I'm nutzo. Maybe I am, because now I'm even more of a cripple than I was before. I decided they meant both physically _and_ emotionally nutzo!

Bullshit! 

When I finally blew my stack, they all backed off. But I had to get really crappy about it.

I was surprised by the regrets I had later for going off on them like that. I'm beginning to rethink things since the trip to Raleigh … like maybe "crappy" isn't all there is.

But I don't know how to change it …

00000000

Ahh … House … whatever am I gonna do with you? 

We endured the trip north out of Baltimore, mostly in a prickly silence that was excruciating for both him and me. I was certain House was busy considering all the details of having to talk about the failure of his nanocite surgeries, and then be compelled to confess to our boss that he harbored a morbid fear of having them put back in place again.

After acknowledging all the guesswork and sleight-of-hand involved the first time, his halting explanation would tell Cuddy that the bugs were pretty harmless, if not actually miraculous … but that he would rather die than have to go through it again.

I figured Gregg would try to make some kind of morbid joke about it and then drop the subject like a hot potato. Which … by the way … is exactly what happened.

I did finally call Cuddy … after the flurry of frenzied activity when Earl died and House went back under the knife to have the nanocites removed. I was beside myself with worry for him, and my confused attempts to tell our boss what happened, left her confused also, and saddened by my news. It also left me in a daze of having offered some half-assed spiel that didn't made much sense to her … only that Gregg's pain was back, his foot was too badly hurt for him to even _try_ to walk without crutches … and we would soon be on our way home.

I told her I feared that this failure would affect him even worse than the Ketamine failure last year, and God only knew what its long-range consequences would be.

My attempts to explain Earl's death and its complications to the case only confused her further, because she had no idea who he was. And so I'd left it hanging. And then we were on the road, and it didn't matter to Cuddy anymore anyway.

House rode the rest of the way to Jersey bundled in the thick _Ravens_ sweatshirt. He refused to put the brace back on his leg, and so he sat with it propped straight out in front of him on a pile of pillows, overlaid by the two old blankets I pulled from the back of the SUV. He reminded me of a hibernating Polar Bear … sickly white and starving …

I couldn't, in good conscience, let his wounded foot remain bare. I stopped at a K-Mart close to the Marriott, bought a pair of hunting socks and slid one of them on over the bandage while he sighed like a scruffy "Camille" and glared a crater into the top of my head.

Twenty miles further up the interstate he finally said "thanks" … and something to the effect that his foot had finally stopped hurting and was beginning to warm up a little.

Simple gifts …

After we got home, he spent two days in the hospital for observation while we ran further tests … which all came up clean … and another week at home, mostly in bed or on the couch. I stayed with him. Beside him. I cooked, I did cleanup, and I forced him to begin leg exercises. I took care of his surgical sites and gently removed the bandage residue after a few days. All the while he complained constantly. I finally adjusted a mental switch and turned him off.

I checked around the basement looking for Steve McQueen, but the rat had evidently flown the coop. All that was left down there was the almost-empty bag that used to be filled with pellets. House couldn't have cared less. He languished with the remote in his hand or Tyree's iPod hanging around his neck. I went about my business and kept quiet. He wouldn't have listened to me anyway.

And I called Cuddy again. She stopped by his place that first night with one of PPTH's collapsible wheelchairs, and also to let him know there would be another one delivered to his office for the day when he decided to return to work.

Cuddy tried to tell him she was sorry that the nanocites procedure had failed for him. He ignored her completely and sat on the couch like a stubborn mule. His eyes were the only things that moved, staring angrily at the wheelchair. He didn't like it at all, but what the hell was he going to do? He couldn't walk …

After she went home, he mumbled that he thought he might be losing what was left of his mind. Then he turned his face to the back of the couch and shut off completely for the rest of the night. Once in awhile I would hear snatches of Tyree's iPod playing … and the TV set on mute, flickering in the gathering darkness.

It was going to be a loong recovery. For both of us!

This evening I walked over to his office to see if he was ready to leave. I knew he'd lost a patient earlier today, and Cameron told me he was holed up in his office and stubbornly uncommunicative. When I opened the door, his back was turned, his leg propped awkwardly on a crutch that lay extended from the seat of his chair to the bookcase by the window. His shoe was off. Dropped on the floor near the desk.

His shoulders were hunched forward as though from the cold, his right hand clenching his thigh, and a case file in a purple folder laid open across his lap. Already I knew where the conversation, if any, would go.

"House?"

He flinched. He hadn't heard me enter. His mind was completely preoccupied. I moved closer to his chair, and leaned down, touching his shoulder lightly.

He tensed. "Don't do that!"

His voice was like an icy blast and I withdrew immediately. "What's wrong? Shoulder bothering you again?" Pretending I wasn't attempting to use Bart's gift. Already the conversation wasn't going exactly in the direction I'd predicted …

"No! I just don't want you practicing that damn hocus pocus stuff on me anymore. It doesn't work. So knock it off. And while you're at it, go away. I have work to do."

"House … _nothing _works if you don't give it a chance. I thought you had dozed off. So how will you get home if I leave without you?"

"I'll _limp!_

"I'll call a taxi … or commandeer a golf cart … or hail a magic carpet. What difference does it make? I'll manage to get home. Get the hell out of here! Go somewhere that's noisy and serves good booze and good food! Go somewhere and mingle with the great unwashed! Go get laid! Go _enjoy_ yourself, Wilson. Go have _fun_ … just let me the hell alone! _Go!"_

So I went. I turned on my heel and walked out of there. I let him sit in a puddle of his own misery and went back to my hotel room. _Fuck him!_

No booze. No noise. No hooker. No food. Just a bottle of cold water, a pack of cheese crackers and a rerun of _NYPD Blue_ on the TV until I fell asleep with my clothes on.

But then I quit feeling sorry for myself and put in a call to the snack bar downstairs …

00000000

House … what the hell has got into you?? Why do you let Wilson get to you like this? He never did before …

I called a taxi about an hour after he left. I had no right to yell at him like that, but I couldn't stop myself. Regrets really suck when you don't do anything to make amends for acting like an asshole.

Step Eight: _"Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all." _ That step again!

Those freaking Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions still nest in my brain like buzzards waiting for something to die. Wilson was right again. Damn him! That crap sticks with you like shit to a blanket! AA brainwashing!

If I made that list of people I'd harmed, and put all the names in alphabetical order, I wouldn't get to Wilson for about twenty-three years. So I shortened the list to a single name … and picked up the phone.

I put my shoe back on, gathered up my crutches, and limped out of there. Rode down to the lobby and managed to make it out the front door. It didn't take long at this time of night for a cab to pull up.

The taxi driver was female. A big broad with a butchy haircut, a deep voice and cowboy boots. Her getup spelled _'DYKE'_ in capital letters, but none of my business, right? The thing is; she was a kind woman with a great sense of humor, the "road macho" of Dale Earnhardt, and the strength of a lumberjack. She called herself "Gilda", and I saw her huge hazel eyes melt the second she spotted the crutches.

Oh shit! 

My first thought was to play her like a violin, but thought better of it as we drove along, and I realized she was a smart cookie.

So I played it straight instead. (Pun intended!)

She screeched to a stop in front of me when she saw me standing in front of the hospital looking like an overgrown camera tripod. Before I could make a move, she was out from behind the wheel and hurrying around to open the back door before I could even get to it. Her big arm came up between her chest and mine like a crowbar.

"Hand me your crutches and grab my arm," she said. I hesitated, but she was looking me in the eyes. Not quite a demand, but close. I decided to trust her and did as she asked. In one smooth motion, she took the crutches, eased me down on the back seat and hefted my butt across it, steadying my leg so it wouldn't get bumped in the process.

Gasping, I looked at her with new respect. "Thanks."

She grinned and winked. "All in a night's work, buddy. Where ya headed?"

I hesitated a second, but then gave her an address. Not my own. She placed the crutches on the back floor beside me, closed the door and got back behind the wheel. While she drove, I dug in my jeans pocket for anything that looked like money.

His hotel was one of the smaller ones on the main drag. The front marquis was an old-fashioned parade of bright incandescent lights that announced the name like movie theaters used to do in the '40s:

"_The Drake"._

Here I was. Now what?

It had taken Gilda six minutes to get us there. She parked so close to the front … in a "_No Parking Zone"_ … that the passenger-side tires were both on the curb. I saw her smack the flag down on the meter, yank the four-way flashers on and get out of the cab again.

I had no time to pick up the crutches, because she was there, opening the door and holding out that hickory-log arm. She guided my bum leg with the other hand and pulled me forward with the hickory one until I was perched on the edge of the seat. She scooped up the crutches and handed them to me. Eased me to a standing position and waited patiently while I hopped around like a one-legged crow; helping me with balance, until I got them positioned beneath my arms.

"You okay, Buddy? Your bum foot all right?"

I squelched the caustic comment that rose in my throat and smiled instead. Like a gentleman. She had earned my respect twice over.

"Yeah, Gilda. You're good!"

She grinned. "Thanks." She walked beside me all the way to the lobby, and I hoped to hell Wilson had come straight back here instead of listening to my stupid, freaking advice.

I held out my hand after we got inside, and nudged her on the upper arm. It was like nudging Gorilla Monsoon!

She looked down and I held my hand, clenched and obviously containing money, overtop of hers. She opened her palm, and I let go of the crunched-up bill. She took it without looking, and turned, walked toward the door.

Beside the elevator, I turned and watched. On the sidewalk, she opened her hand. Stared. Whirled around to squint into the lobby.

I heard her scream: "Jesus Christ! Thanks, man!"

She saw me nod, and the elevator door opened. I hobbled inside and hit the button for Wilson's floor. Smirked to myself. That hundred was the only damn bill I had!

Wilson stood back as he opened the door to his room. I had banged on it with the tip of a crutch.

He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe, and of course he hadn't taken my advice. He didn't seem at all surprised to see me. "C'mon in, House. I'm betting that you took a taxi … and not a golf cart or a flying carpet …"

I nodded. "Uh huh. I'm sorry. I'm hungry, I'm a fucking asshole, and my leg hurts like a son of a bitch."

He smiled and led me straight to the big chair in the corner … the old one with the large, soft ottoman. His medical bag sat open on the table beside the bed. There on the bed lay one of my old tee shirts and an old pair of sweat pants. The big heating pad was warming up and waiting …

"There's beer in the fridge," he said softly, "I went downstairs and brought us each a sausage sandwich and nachos with cheese. We just have to heat 'em up in the microwave. So lift your leg up here and let me check you …"

I sighed, propped the crutches in the corner, plopped down and leaned back. Did exactly as he asked. "If you wanna pull a 'Bart' on me, it's okay. Seriously …" And I saw his eyes soften into a twinkle.

House … you are a lucky son of a bitch! 

For the first time in almost a year … before all this crap got started with Tritter … and the trial … and the jail … and the rehab …

I felt like I'd finally come home.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

28


	51. Chapter 51

"GUESSWORK"

- Epilogue -

"Love is a Study in Guesswork"

I'm becoming a night owl. I never used to be. Funny how circumstances can clutter up your life when you least expect it …

The room is dark. I have everything turned off, even the wall lights and the dim one above the piano. There's a night light on in the kitchen … the one by the sink. And another one in the bathroom, mainly so he doesn't trip over anything and fall if he has to get up during the night.

There's a pile of technical journals on the coffee table; stuff he gets a big kick out of wrapping his brain around, but which doesn't interest me at all. He's still researching the feasibility of the "mesh caul" theory he brought along home from Raleigh … that idea for figuring out a way to make traumatized bone and muscle adhere to one another again after a serious injury. He said it's turned out to be more involved than it looks, but he's determined to find a way.

He has a puzzle to distract him and he is the happiest horse in the race. He works alone, mostly, and he is in another world. I don't disturb him when he is locked into this place, for it is the closest he ever comes to contentment. He forgets for a short time that the pain in his leg still rules his existence, and life is not fair, and tomorrow never comes.

It's Friday night, about 2:00 a.m., I think. I haven't checked the time lately. He's asleep. He wasn't feeling well, so he turned in about midnight, and it's been quiet since. I wasn't tired; so I sat down on the couch with the TV on low and watched blearily as the Jay Leno show provide me with a night light of my own. After Leno was over, I channel surfed awhile, but couldn't find anything interesting, so I turned it off.

Outside I can see the shadows of the trees across the street doing dances in the breeze under the streetlights; jittery contortions that make my eyeballs contort with them. So I focus my eyes somewhere else before I end up with a headache.

After awhile I get up from the couch and walk down the hallway to his bedroom. The door is open … he never closes it anymore … and I lean against the doorjamb and look in on him. There's a night light on in here too that I'd forgotten about, and its diffused light lets me see the general clutter of his room.

That damn red necktie is hanging from the doorknob of his closet with the gift tag still dangling from it, and I remain puzzled about his insistence on keeping it in sight. Might have something to do with words he can't say, that still get stuck in his throat, and I'm supposed to see it around the place from time to time and know what he means by it. I don't know … but I choose to believe that's what it's for.

In the corner beside the bed, nearest the bathroom side, the crutches are still propped and waiting in case he needs them. I haven't seen him use them, but from time to time I see that they've been moved, and I know he has. He doesn't tell me, and I don't ask. Just as in his office at work, the wheelchair is still pushed into the corner near the yellow chair.

I know he uses it. Others have seen him using it and have told me. But if I'm in my office or somewhere nearby, I know he would rather be shot at close range than allow me to catch him in it.

He is snoring heavily, sound asleep at the moment. Turned slightly onto his left side with the bum leg stretched out straight and propped on the usual pillow. He doesn't complain about it much anymore, but the evidence of his pain is everywhere, and I wonder if he thinks I'm insensitive … or stupid … or both.

I sigh and turn again to walk back to my perch on the couch. In a couple of hours I will put the coffee on and start breakfast. I know he expects it of me, and I will not let him down.

It's the middle of June now, and the whole experience of our time at Paramar is a distant memory. He never talks about it anymore, and I don't bring it up because he doesn't. I often wonder, though, how it is with Kip and Neeka and the others, and whether their ongoing nanocite research has given them any further breakthroughs. I'd like to call down there and find out, but in the back of my mind is a little bell that rings "betrayal" if I do. I don't think he's ready yet, although if the mesh caul idea turns out to be a revolutionary medical phenomenon, I know he will call Kip and let him know what's going on, since it was Kip's idea in the first place.

Our work at the hospital continues, and things have leveled out fairly well after the passage of this much time. His foot has healed, and he can wear a shoe again. He is back on the cane, but he is very lame. I can tell how much he's hurting just by watching his face and realizing the effort it sometimes takes for him to hide it. He says the spasms are seldom, but the missing muscle has weakened further, and the leg is worse. I don't bug him about it because I promised not to. He has promised to tell me if he is in difficulty, but it's always his word against mine, and he loves that phrase: "I'm fine!"

His work ethic hasn't changed a bit. I don't know why I expected otherwise. He still runs off at the mouth to Cuddy and the kids, and they still get all exasperated with him. He still avoids clinic hours like the plague, and won't go near a patient whose case he's working on unless there's absolutely no choice.

He still dicks me into paying for his lunches and never fails to steal food off my plate, but he never does it in anger anymore, and he never belittles me for expressing concern.

He does not bitch me out when I ask how he's feeling, and he does not make a major production of every question I ask about his welfare. He even springs for pizza and beer every once in awhile, but I usually get corralled into dish washing and cleanup. I do it willingly, because I have noticed lately that he never stands if there is a place to sit. If it is possible for him to lie down, he does so. And when he sits down, the leg gets propped up or stretched out. Always. That's how I know it's worse than before.

So why am I sitting here in his living room at 2:30 a.m. on a Friday night? I'm not sure. Today he wanted to know if I would move back in here if he asked me. There is a small room off the kitchen that I could convert into a bedroom if I want to. I'd just have to clean it out and do some major painting and overhaul. The question floored me, and I haven't figured out an answer yet. I'm working on it.

I was beginning to think this smelly old couch would be my nesting place for the rest of my natural life, but that's okay. I can think of worse … like a smelly old hotel room with a dorm refrigerator and a microwave. A fair exchange is no robbery, or so I've heard.

This stupid screwed-up friendship I spoke of once, has seen a lot of sea changes the past six months. It has undergone a schism that no friendship should ever have to endure … and somehow it survived.

We called one another names and accused one another of atrocities that neither of us meant. We just wanted to hurt each other in the same manner in which both of us were already hurting. Neither of us stopped to think about the damage we were inflicting on each other until Gregg got on that damned suicide machine and ran for his life.

And I ran after him for mine!

There are so many different kinds of pain.

We survive as an entity. I can't explain it. Neither can he. We've finally stopped trying. We only know that we're stronger together than we ever were apart. I'm only guessing at that, you know, but it seems logical in the long run.

But that's what friendship is, isn't it? … if it's real.

It's a lifetime of love and respect …

And guesswork.

End

AUTHOR'S NOTE: July 27, 2007, Milton PA

There are no words to say thanks to everyone who stuck with me through this thing. No way other than this pitiful little parade of words to say how much I loved and ate up every kind word and every plea for another update. Music to my ears (so to speak …)

Maybe I'm a little like the stray dog that hangs around your back door … if ya feed me,

I'll never go away! Well, you fed me … and I'm not going anywhere. Watch for the next "angst-fest", coming soon. Thanks again …

Bets;)

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

30


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